


But to the Dead, the Truth

by furorem



Series: Carpe Diem, Memento Mori and Everything In Between [1]
Category: Mindhunter (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe, American Gothic - Freeform, Case Fic, M/M, Magical Realism, Murder Mystery, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:47:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 62,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26070628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/furorem/pseuds/furorem
Summary: Special Agent Bill Tench is summoned to South Carolina, to help with the investigation of the excavated body of an unidentified person. As the case unravels, nothing is as it seems.
Relationships: Holden Ford/Bill Tench
Series: Carpe Diem, Memento Mori and Everything In Between [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2061081
Comments: 73
Kudos: 65





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lapsi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lapsi/gifts).



> Thank you for inspiring me with your wonderful stories and the nice conversations we had. And thank you for your lovely feedback!

_To the living we owe respect, but to the dead we owe only the truth._

_\- Voltaire_

It’s getting late. The other patrons are either long gone or here to drown their sorrows the remainder of the night. Bill takes a drag of his dwindling cigarette, watches from behind a protective screen of smoke. He doesn’t need to be an agent to deduct why these people haven’t left yet. Some of them look like they haven’t seen the inside of a shower for a while: shaggy hair, unkempt beards, dark circles under their bloodshot eyes. Men without families and friends. He’s loath to admit that the reason he spots them so easily is because he’s on his way to become like them, not because he’s a good agent.

Ever since his divorce he’s been spending more and more time in these establishments than he likes to admit. Nancy left and took Brian with her, his visitation rights restricted to the times he’s actually in town. Which isn’t a lot since the BSU really took off and the end of his withering marriage. On his worst days he thinks of it as the exchange between one evil and another. He hates himself instantaneously and drinks to forget. Or at least numb the feelings of inadequacy that lurk in the dark corners of his mind.

If there is one thing he’s learned after years of doing what he’s doing, it’s that those things and thoughts are stressors for the inadequate. No need to fall into _that_ category. If Wendy were here, she would give him one of her condescending glares and tell him in a highly academic matter to move the fuck on and focus on what’s important. As it is, she’s currently travelling the country, guest teaching at different universities to promote their work and her subsequently published study.

With a sigh Bill extinguishes his cigarette, pushing it into the ashtray to the beat of America’s _Horse With No Name_ playing softly in the background. Clive, who might as well be as old as the bar, and who suffers from constant grouchiness and ptosis on his right eyelid, wanders over at Bill’s waving and grabs the cash offered in exchange for the whiskey without a thanks. He does nod and grumble something along the lines of ‘see ya, Bill’ as Bill slips into his coat and shoulders his way outside. It’s half past eleven when he manoeuvres his car from the curb, probably way too drunk to be driving.

He manages to arrive at his townhouse in Quantico (bought after his divorce because the old house had been too big, too expensive, had held too many baleful memories) (bought because a part of him had hoped Nancy and he might sort this out) without accident and stumbles his way into the awaiting darkness. Turning the light on reveals, to Bill’s dismay, the owner’s desolate situation: four walls with no life in them, the interior filled with necessities and nothing else. In his state between waking nightmare and numbed emotions, Bill goes through his nightly routine and falls into bed, exhausted and melancholic. He’s as alone as it gets. 

At six in the morning he’s pulled from his fitful sleep by the telephone ringing. Half-asleep and still feeling the effects of the alcohol sloshing in his system, he peeks at the clock before taking the receiver off the hook.

“Tench,” he groans, rolled onto his side, the streetlamp outside casting uneven shadows through his blinds as he listens.

“Yes. Understood. I’ll book the next available flight. Yes, thanks. No, not at all. You too, sir.”

He cradles the phone and flops back onto the bed. He spends the next hour trying to fall back asleep to give his body time to break down the alcohol but fails. In the end he searches his bedside drawer for some Aspirin. It’s an early start for him. Way too early. But he shall not complain. This is the grave he dug for himself and now he must lie in it. Or something like that.

He’s at the office before anyone else arrives to pick up the rudimentary info faxed to the Bureau and gone to the airport without anyone knowing of his imminent trip. He figures Gunn will tell them. Or someone else. Bill doesn’t care.

At the airport he calls a disappointed yet resigned Nancy that he will be out of town for a while, then sits in a café, drinking overpriced mediocre coffee while eating an equally overpriced bagel, all while wearing sunglasses that make him look like a washed up celebrity. By the time he boards he’s into his second coffee, his third cigarette and sober enough to go over the two pages of information. It’s not much, but it gives him a coherent overall picture. He contemplates ordering a whiskey, then thinks better of it, telling himself that he’s not _that_ depressed to have a drink at ten in the morning. 

*

Surprisingly, he’s being picked up by a young woman, who is obviously a Fed if the way she is dressed can be taken as an indicator. The car pulls up to the curb where he is smoking, hating the heat already. She leans across the seat and rolls the window down to talk to him. Her hair is light brown, bordering on dark blonde and pulled back in a tight knot at the back of her head to reveal a set of green piercing eyes.

“Special Agent Tench?”

“That would be me.”

“Special Agent Monroe. I’m your liaison.”

Still smoking, he opens the door to the passenger seat and climbs in, laying his briefcase down on his thighs. She extends her hand, shaking his with a strong grip, without smiling.

Bill can’t help but analyze her. She’s a woman at the FBI. A novelty as far as the slow grinding mills of FBI bureaucracy are concerned. A woman in a field dominated by men. Is she trying to imitate or assimilate?

“Nice to meet you. What would you like to do first? Talk to the Police?”

“Let’s do the crime scene first.”

“Okay.”

Her attention swivels back to the traffic as she starts the engine and leads them away from the airport.

“You’re familiar with the case?”

“Barely,” Bill starts, taking one last drag and stubbing out the rest in the ashtray, “Only the basics. Very well compiled, though.”

“Thanks. As the profiler coordinator I was asked to contact you and help you with the investigation.”

“By SAC Houser? Is he still in charge?”

“Yes.”

Houser, even compared to Bill, is ancient and one of the few that still sheds tears over Hoover’s death; the loss of traditional values. Which in his book means the slow loss of the FBI’s rigid structures. Bill can only imagine what she must have heard and endured, working under him. 

“You must be one of the first. Women in the FBI, I mean. Nice to see someone breathing fresh air into it.”

“That – that actually means a lot coming from you.”

“Oh? That so?”

Bill looks at her from a different angle. There’s a faint tint of red on her cheeks. Not trying to appear tough then, just trying to keep it cool. Bill should feel flattered but he’s wary. He doesn’t want some misguided hero worship from a young impressionable mind. He’s about to open his mouth –

“I was studying at John Hopkins when I heard about what you and Dr. Carr were doing. It made me want to join your team. I finished my studies and applied to the FBI. I was lucky they were eager to recruit every woman who was willing to join at the time.” 

“John Hopkins, huh? So what did you major in?”

“Psychology.”

Bill nods, confirming his suspicions.

“But you know how it is. Gotta proof myself before I’m even allowed to ask for a relocation.”

He leans back into his seat, shifting to get comfortable, purposely staying quiet and grinning as he watches her from the corner of his eyes. Foxy Agent Monroe. Something about her reminds him of Wendy.

“Let’s see how you hold up. Maybe we can speed up the process.”

“Thank you, Agent Tench,” she says under her breath.

“Bill.”

Her eyes find his, “Thank you, Bill.”

Natural silence descends between them. The radio is turned off. Bill looks outside, watching the urban landscape passing by and people going about their daily business. 

No clouds in the blue blue sky.

They’re nearing a bridge crossing a big river, flowing into the ocean, which is glittering in the distance, leaving Charleston slowly behind and eventually crossing a second bridge. Beyond, they enter the outskirts of what Bill suspects is Mount Pleasant. The sun is blasting down on the wide stretches of murky marshes, and further inland succulent green trees. Soon, the first few flat lonely houses come into view: all of them are in various states of decay or completely abandoned, run-down pickup trucks parked in front of them next to barbeques - one of them manned by a man in a dirtied undershirt and a red cap. Passing another house someone thin, almost skeleton like, with what looks like a shot-gun, comes walking down his porch.

“Nice place,” Bill murmurs as they pass the houses. He already has a clear picture of the kind of people that live here.

“It’s not so bad once you get closer to the city center and the new neighborhoods. Lots of construction. Politicians trying to get businesses in, tourists, you know, changing the image and getting folks to move.”

Bill knows exactly what she’s trying to say.

True to what Agent Monroe said, the houses become bigger, cleaner. Bill knows it doesn’t mean shit. He interviewed men who lived in these houses for years, harboring their sick fantasies until they realized them.

She takes a few turns, slowly backing away from the beautiful municipal buildings, towards building cranes and construction sites with half-finished and newly finished houses framed by wilderness.

“Did you consider that they may have come across an old mass grave from the Civil War?”

“We advised them on that, yes. After Police excavated the body, they dug up the surrounding area. Nothing.”

The car leaves the tarred street. Underneath the tires, gravel scrunches. A sign states ‘Danger. Construction Area Authorized Personnel Only’ and Monroe slowly comes to a halt and kills the engine. As Bill exits the vehicle, he’s hit with a wall of humidity, and misses the air conditioner immediately. The sun is oppressive. Sweat gathers underneath his arms, at the small of his back, his neck and above his brow. He loses his jacket, and throws it back into the car, rolling up his shirt sleeves. Agent Monroe seems unfazed and grins at him as she puts on her sunglasses.

“Lead the way,” he says and follows.

They walk along the dusty path where the diggers stand tall and imposing and abandoned, claws throwing shadows over the large rectangular holes in the earth. As they approach the yellow tape warning them ‘Police do not cross’ and duck underneath the tape to find the temporarily abandoned crime scene, a murder of crows atop a digger takes flight with an unhappy scream. Agent Monroe stops, hands resting on her hips and nods to the hole.

“That’s it. That’s where Jerry Mitchell found the skeleton.”

Bill mirrors her pose. Letting his scrutinizing gaze roam across the surrounding area he picks up on the remote location, the trees surrounding the construction site to the right, and to the left marshes in the far back. He turns to the young agent who is biting her lip and trying to see what he is seeing.

“Do you have a camera with you?” he asks.

“Ehm,” Monroe turns to the car in thought, “yeah, I think so. But Agent Tench – ”

“Bill”

“Bill, sorry. Police already took photos.”

Above her sunglasses her eyebrows are drawn together in skepticism.

“I know. I’m not questioning anyone’s competence. I like to take pictures from my perspective.”

The frown disappears from her face, replaced by concealed respect before she nods and walks back towards the car. A little indifferently he watches her walk away, placing her, for just a moment, against the backdrop of skeletal houses and more construction sides and thinned out forest in the close distance.

The itch to smoke crawls underneath his skin. He pats down his pockets, realizing that he left his cigarettes in the car. “Shit,” he curses, and swipes his forearm across his sweaty forehead instead, where pearls roll across his temples. It feels like the cicadas are mocking him. 

Miffed, he walks along the excavation site and peers into the empty hole. Someone went to the trouble to dig a grave. One far away from civilization. Once. Did the perpetrator simply want to hide the body? Or was there some other factor at play for coming all this way out here to get rid of it? Why bury it _here_? Bill’s gut, his expertise tells him that there must be more bodies; this wasn’t his first kill and if it was, he knew exactly what he was doing. This was premeditated and orchestrated by an organized mind, months or even years ago, by someone knowing the area. The MO so far seems too refined for a first timer, someone with mental health issues or a drifter.

His fingers rub across his lips, desperately craving nicotine. And a cold shower. His gaze wanders along the area and –

Catches something at the edge of the trees. Something –

Something he can’t describe. Something, which makes the hair at the back of his neck stand up, his heart rate accelerate. 

Footsteps behind him alert him to Monroe approaching. He turns and as she walks up next to him, camera securely in her hands, offers it in a silent gesture. Distracted he thanks her and looks back towards the trees.

Nothing.

Taking a deep breath, and telling himself that it was simply the heat, he takes the sleek black Canon from her and gets into several different positions to take pictures of what the killer might have seen when he deposited the body here, when he dug. Takes one shot of the forest. For some reason he doesn’t dare go near it.

His last shot, he decides, will be from several feet away from the burial side. The panorama is disturbed by the diggers and hills of soil, so Bill tries to picture it without, tries to imagine the landscape undisturbed by human hands. A solitary figure with a shovel digging in the dark. The same pines and oak trees hung with Spanish Moss, the brownish grass reaching up from the little creeks and swamps, the complete and utter nothingness. He lifts the camera to his eyes one last time and snaps the photo.

“Alright, I’ve seen enough. Let’s go.”

Monroe, who has been watching Bill closely, nods and heads back towards the car.

“Where to next?”

“Coroner’s office. I want to see the body. Or what’s left of it, before hearing what Police has to say.”

“Hm-hm. Sure thing.”

Back inside the car he fumbles for his cigarettes, sighing in relief at the first hit of nicotine to his brain relaxes his shoulders. Luckily, Monroe stays mostly silent and lets Bill review his impressions in peace.

She stirs the car back towards Charleston, he notes, and like she said, the closer they come towards the buzzing hive of the city, the more Bill forgets about the dilapidated houses with poor people haunting their own places like ghosts; the victims of endless cycles of abuse passed down from generation to generation as a result of a failed capitalist society.

But even as Monroe parks in front of what is clearly the coroner’s office, it’s clear that the decay hits even the most important of institutions.

Coroner Sharp is – in Bill’s opinion – no worthy bearer of the name.

Standing around the table where their skeletonized unknown person silently lies, Bill asks, “So what you’re saying is that you have absolutely no idea.”

Sharp bites his lips, quelling his anger from the way his glacial blue eyes bore into Bill. God, how old is this man? He seems like a relic from the last century.

“You have to excuse me, Agent Tench. I’ve never had to deal with this kind of - - case before. My usual clientele is either shot, stabbed or otherwise deceased and very much identifiable.”

Bill suppresses a sigh of irritation. He doesn’t know what irks him more, that any idiot can apply for the job as coroner and get away with incompetence or that he was sent to solve a case which is beyond even his capabilities. Bill usually knows his victims, needs to, to create a profile.

He turns to the skeleton next to him, cataloguing it, trying to gauge if he can get a glimpse of the life it led before its demise. All of its browned bones are neatly arranged on the metal table. Sharp, at least, knows about human anatomy it seems. His fingers itch to trace along the cracked ribs – the work of the builders or its murderer? He looks into its hollow skull and hopes for divine insight.

“Listen, I’ll talk to Quantico and see what we can do. Our guys at the forensic lab are trained for these kinds of things. And there are huge technological advancements happening at the moment. We’ll figure it out.”

Bill knows better than to antagonize those he needs to work with in the foreseeable future. Sharp relaxes his face, agreeing with Bill. Probably more out of desperation and humiliation than professionality. He strikes Bill as the kind of man with a lot of misplaced pride.

Turning to their John or Jane Doe, Bill says, “We’re going to find out who you are. One way or another.” He doesn’t know why he says it or who he is trying to reassure.

The eyeless sockets stare back at him without miraculously revealing their identity.

Before they enter the red-bricked precinct, Monroe stops him with a gentle hand on his arm.

“Just so you know, the guys in there are happy we’re here. They requested our help because they’re hopelessly overwhelmed, but they’re also scared we’re gonna exclude them from the investigation.”

Bill lights his 6th cigarette that day.

“Did you tell them that we’re only here to consult?”

Monroe nods, “I did. But you know how it is.”

Bill does indeed know. A healthy mixture of mistrust and sexism. He admires her for her steadfastness and begins to understand her coolly exterior more and more.

He holds the door for her, to her thankful amusement.

“Wow. Gentlemen yet exist.”

They haven’t probably set foot into the homicide department before an officer of Bill’s age approaches. He’s sporting the last remnants of ginger hair and a mustache beneath warm brown eyes.

His gold ring catches the light as he extends his hand to greet Monroe and Bill, introducing himself as Chief Wilson.

“How was the flight?”

“Good, thanks for asking.”

“Real glad the FBI is helping. Never seen something like this. We get our fair share of murders but, you know, predictable. The spouse, a robbery, that kind of stuff.”

Familiar to the speech, Bill shrugs his shoulders.

“Crazy times, I know. Why don’t you talk me through the case? It’s late and I’m sure you’re just about ready to go home to your family.”

A jovial grin stretches across Chief Wilson’s face at the mention of his family. He waves Bill and Monroe along to a big conference room. A corkboard along one of the walls is hung with pictures of the newly discovered crime scene and on the table in the middle of the room, several papers lie in an organized system. 

Wilson starts with the wall, walking to the first picture in the row, “This is the site on Thursday. Around 3 p.m. one of the workers, Mitchell, was depositing his soil when he saw something strange. He stopped the machine, got out and saw what appeared to be a couple of bones. He called over to one of his colleagues, Rendall, to make sure he wasn’t imagining things.

“Rendall sees him waving and yelling, pauses his work, comes over and says, ‘sure enough, that’s bones, Jerry.’ Both of them try to stay calm, telling themselves it’s probably an animal while they can’t help but be suspicious. So they walk over to the pit Mitchell’s been digging. Guess what they see?” Wilson points to the photo of the pit – the one Bill already saw empty – showing human remains lying, uncovered and partly scattered, inside. Bill steps closer to look at the position of the skull and what’s around it. A rotten piece of cloth, head turned towards the ground, not the sky.

“Bingo. Our unidentified body. Mitchell runs over to his boss, tells him what he’s found. In the meantime, everyone is aware of the commotion. All work stops. The other three, interested, join Rendall to see what the hell is going on. The boss, Kosinski, annoyed and convinced Mitchell is talking bullshit, goes with him, looks into the pit and nearly pisses his pants – his words. He tells everyone to go home, tells Mitchell to stay put, finds the nearest telephone booth and calls us.”

Finished with this narrative, Wilson swaggers over to the table and points at the section dedicated to witness statements.

“By the time we arrive, everyone except Mitchell, Randall and Kosinski are gone and the three of them are pale as sheets. We take pictures, statements, call the coroner, go through the usual mumbo-jumbo, you know it, and get that poor son of a bitch out of there.”

He indicates the next pile.

“No clothes, no weapon, no personal belongings. The only evidence is this piece of cloth found wrapped around the skull. Reason why we labelled it a homicide. One of my boys, Captain Reynolds, took a seminar a few years back. It was all about forensics, we figured we take some samples of soil in case we need it, measured the depth of the grave, the size of the cloth.” True to his word, it’s all there: a little round container filled with earth, a picture of the stained and half-way decomposed scrap of fabric next to a forensic ruler, now neatly packaged in an evidence bag, a photo of someone holding a measuring tape from inside the grave standing next to the wall of solid earth, several written reports, more pictures of the crime scene.

Bill is silent as he takes it all in. Say what you will about the Deep South and their practices but at least they know how to work a crime scene despite missing expertise. Wilson doesn’t wait for any response from Bill. He leans closer, conspiringly. 

“We were thinking some kind of ritual, you know. The occult, Satanism. Reason why I called the FBI.”

Bill suppresses a sigh. He was about to praise Wilson’s precinct and their good work. He shares a pointed look with Monroe and produces a cigarette. He can see how she’s grinding her teeth, almost a miniscule gesture. Snapping his lighter shut, he turns to Wilson. 

“Unlikely. The Satanic Panic is nothing more than that, believe me. In all my time working as an Agent, I’ve never come across a true victim of satanic rituals.”

He lets that sink in. Waits for Wilson to unfold his arm and be receptive to what Bill has to say.

“You’ve done a great job so far. Don’t get sidetracked by assumptions. The evidence will tell us what happened. I used to do Road School – drive across the country, visit precincts like yours and give you guys some insight into what we’re doing at the FBI. It boils down to Why plus How equals Who. And I’m telling you, it’s _never_ a satanic cult. If you’re talking about cult killings, think Jim Jones, Charles Manson.”

Wilson nods pensively, looking at the evidence on the table. “Where do we go from here?”

Rubbing a knuckle over his eye, Bill feels a yawn trying to break free. The heat, the few hours of sleep, are catching up to him.

“We need to identify the body. That’s our priority. Without ID there’s little we can do. I already talked to Sharp to arrange for our lab to do the identification.”

“Alright. What else?” Wilsons asks, pursing his lips. 

“I – we’ll need copies of everything you’ve got so far.” Bill takes an unsubtle look at his watch, “Look, it’s getting late. How about we meet in the morning, bright and early and talk strategy with a fresh head?”

Wilson shrugs, “Fine by me.”

“One last thing,” Bill says, “I need some photos developed.”

As he steps out of the precinct and lights another cigarette, while waiting for Monroe to get the car, an unfamiliar, melodic voice addresses him, “Are you with the FBI?”

Before he can answer, as he turns around, the voice, belonging to a young man leaning against the building, speaks again, “About time if you ask me.”

“Excuse me?” Bill asks with eyebrows raised and his mind setting off alarm bells. Who is this guy with his combed hair and pouty mouth looking like a Mormon? 

“It’s pretty obvious that Police were unequipped to deal with this.”

Hands on his hips, close to his gun, Bill exudes angry energy, hoping to scare away whoever the fuck this is. _Clearly_ not police. 

The man pushes away from the wall, walking towards him instead. “What’s the first thing you’ll do? I’d start with interviewing the men who worked on the site that day,” he stops, when Bill doesn’t give an answer he continues, “I suppose the FBI is able to identify the body? Even in that state? Find whoever did this?”

Bill’s about to ask who the fuck he is when he spots Monroe’s car out of the corner of his eye. Because of some stupid unexplainable instinct, he turns his head to make sure it’s her, forgetting about the man for a second. Turning back, the stranger is gone. Adrenaline, like untamed horses breaking free from capture, rushes through his system.

He drops his arms, and his cigarette, and scans the area, before he starts walking and rounds the corner of the building in a half-jog, shouting, “Hey!”

But the man is nowhere in sight.

Cursing, he walks back to where Monroe is waiting and gets into the car. She looks at him with a concerned expression. “What is it?”

“Fuck there was – a guy came up to me and asked me about the case. I didn’t get his name. About this tall, short brown hair, twenties. Seemed uptight. No badge.”

The concern is replaced with something else.

“Probably press. Could be a freelancer even. They’re annoying pests. Especially in a case like this one.”

Looking at the spot where the man has recently leaned against the wall, Bill mumbles, “Yeah, maybe.”

*

After this first long day, Bill is happy to relax at the hotel’s pool. God knows it’s hot enough outside. Glad for any form of refreshment, Bill gets into his swimming trunks, grabs his six pack of beer, his pack of cigarettes and his key, and makes for the pool, where at this hour of the evening, only two other people loiter.

After the freefall and the hard hit to the ground that was his divorce, Bill had needed ways to distract himself from his bleak thoughts. Unable to quit smoking and the whiskey, he’d opted for sports to get back into shape or at least some sort of a healthy lifestyle. Golf could only do so much in that department.

The water is comfortably cold as he dips beneath the blue surface and soon the strain of a stressful day is forgotten in the repetitive motions of cutting across the water. He emerges a small eternity later, muscles loose and warmed by exercise. Satisfied, with slightly exhilarated breath he lies down on the nearest lounger and opens the first bottle to watch the last rays of sunlight kiss the sky goodbye in a spectacle of blazing orange and cotton candy pink.

It could almost be tranquil if it weren’t for the faint sounds of the evening crowd filtering through from the other side of the wall; people enjoying their life. Years ago, he would’ve felt bad for his chosen solitude, for neglecting to call Nancy, for running away from his responsibilities as a father and husband. It took a while, but he’s realized since that the big crash that they’d been working towards was inevitable. And necessary.

Bill lights another cigarette, the last in this packet. And listens to a young girl laughing.

Nancy had moved on, had only been a single mother for a short duration before meeting her soon to be second husband. Bill was happy for her. Truly. Even more so for Brian, who was more than lucky to have Kurt caring for him like he were his own son. From what he’s seen he was a better father than Bill could ever hope to be and if he ended up forming a stronger bond with Brian than Bill had ever managed, so be it. He’d have to make his peace with that.

Everyone was moving on. Maybe it was time for him to do so, too.

Now, how did one go about such a thing without going crazy under the pressure of self-doubt?

*

“Hi. This is Bill, Bill Tench from the BSU. I’m in South Carolina, Charleston County and my victim is, let’s say, peculiar. Could you connect me to the head of forensics? Yes, please. Thanks, Katherine.”

Bill likes Katherine. Despite her job at the Bureau she exudes a softness and patience that was severely underappreciated. Not the brightest nor most intelligent, she made up those deficits by being hard working and kind.

“Dr. Jenkins speaking.”

“Yes, hi. Bill Tench here.”

“Hi Bill. Kathy said you might have something for us?”

“Yeah. I’m hoping you might be able to help. I’m in South Carolina on a case and the local coroner is – unqualified to identify the victim.”

“Oh? What is it?”

“Well, it’s skeletonized, you see. They discovered it during construction.”

“Ah shit. I bet the company isn’t too pleased.”

Bill chuckles.

“Anyway, that’s something we can certainly help with. We’ve employed a great forensic anthropologist a few years ago, Dr. Summerset. You want your skeleton examined, he’s your man. He’s on a case in Michigan, though, so it could take a while.”

“Okay. How long?”

“Couple of weeks? Maybe sooner. It depends, Bill. Sorry. Anything else you need?”

“Yeah, its skull was wrapped in a cloth. Can you take a look at it?”

“Sure thing. I’ll organize the transport.”

“Thanks. I’ll talk to the Chief of Police and fill out the paperwork.”

“Great. Do you want me to call you in a couple of days?”

“No need. I have a trial in Richmond coming up next week and need to testify, we’ll talk when I’m back.”

“’Kay. See you then. Bye bye.”

“Yeah, bye.” 

Forensic anthropologist, Bill thinks, interest piqued as he lights his first cigarette of the day.

Later, as he’s looking out his window, he considers the weather and opts for a short-sleeved shirt, no jacket. Picking up his briefcase, filled with the case files he’s studied until late into the night, he leaves his room.

Monroe is already waiting for him as he emerges from the air-conditioned inside of the hotel lobby. Like yesterday she looks young and bright and put together, unbothered by the sweltering heat which begins to feel like it will crawl inside him to make a permanent home there. For a brief moment Bill wonders if he should ask her out for a drink sometime but discards the notion as soon as it comes.

If she really harbors the ambition to work for him, he doesn’t want to be the one to complicate the process for her. She smiles as she and Bill simultaneously bid a good morning and get into the car. The interior smells like coffee and sandwiches.

“That one’s for you,” she nods at the hot beverage between them. Bill thanks her and grants her an appreciative groan.

“Best in town,” she grins, and then sobers again. “Did you talk to Forensics?”

“I did. There’s an anthropologist, Dr. Summerset, who’ll identify our skeleton. He’s on a case in Michigan at the moment but the remains and the evidence will be forwarded to our lab at Quantico. Sorry, but would you mind telling me your first name again? I think I didn’t catch it yesterday. It was a long day.”

“Oh, sorry. My mistake. I didn’t mention it. It’s Angela.”

“Well, Angela, there’s some paperwork that needs to be done and while we wait, we might as well go over the evidence again. Did the Police question the crew?”

“Yes, but superficially. It was mainly taking their statements, like Wilson said.”

“Okay, we’ll invite them without pressuring them. They need to know it’s voluntary. I want to ask them some more specifics. Maybe one of them even knows our mystery guy.”

The brief encounter with the stranger had haunted Bill’s thoughts until he’d fallen into a restless sleep from which he awoke more exhausted than refreshed. There is something about the man that heavily evokes some primal long-forgotten instincts in his reptilian brain. He just can’t put his finger on the reason for it yet. Whatever it is, however much he tries to stay objective, something tells him that Bill should watch out for the man with the deep blue eyes, melodious voice and immaculate outfit.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for the comments ❤️ And thanks for the Kudos!  
> Also thank you lapsi for the beta read. ❤️
> 
> The chapter number has gone up because I miscalculated...oops “¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ “

There are a fair number of reporters greeting them in front of the police station to ask questions about the case, asking if the citizens should be concerned. Concern veiled as sensationalism. Bill tells Angela to ignore them and walks inside where one Detective Cayden is the one to greet them because as it turns out, he is the acting officer on the case. He’s younger than Wilson and Bill, clean shaven and wears his dark hair in the typical police cut. He’s nice enough as he shakes Monroe’s and Bill’s hand but compared to Wilson, he’s gloomy and very no-nonsense. It’s straight to the converted conference room where they sit down at the table overflowing with papers and evidence.

Briefing Cayden is a quick affair. The man agrees to everything Bill’s telling him without complaint, asks a few pointed questions and listens to their advice to invite the construction crew for further questioning. For now, he seems to trust the FBI’s judgment.

While they wait for their first three witnesses to arrive, Bill broaches the subject on how to do the interview. He knows from experience that some officers, even if they’re grateful for the FBI’s help, don’t like being told what to do and how to question a suspect. All too often Bill has advised against a Polygraph and it’s been done anyway, all too often he’s been called to a case where an interview had already been botched by untrained personnel.

Over cups of coffee, Bill reassures Cayden, “It’s your investigation, Detective. Monroe and I will be in the room but we’re only the backup. Ask them how they came to work at this specific company, at this site. Ask about their background, where they live. Are they locals? Or did they move here recently? Ask them things about their personal life: hobbies, family. Be inquisitive but not too aggressive. You want them comfortable enough to talk but not too comfortable to make them think they can get away with lying. If anything they say rouses my suspicion, I’m going to intervene and ask some more questions. We have to be a unified front. How’s that sound?” 

He regards him with a calculating look, smoking, trying to see if Bill is honest, then half-shrugs and says, “Sounds good.”

Turning to Angela, Bill says, “And you put on your meanest face and carefully listen. Focus on the questions I might ask. Also focus on the workers. If there is anything that you find suspicious, don’t hesitate to jump in.”

At the prospect of being an active participant of the investigation, she’s tampering down the excitement in her eyes, yet Bill can still see it. 

They spend all morning and noon interviewing the three builders, Robert Walker, Mark Torres and Tyler Davis, who, after the bloodcurdling discovery of the bones, joined the others to gawk and satisfy their morbid curiosity. The interviews yield no results. All of them are either so utterly normal in addition to lacking any criminal record or give such sensible answers that it would be a wonder if they’d be considered as suspects. Nothing about them feels off.

After a draining start, lunch looks like a short reprieve before the rest of the crew is going to be interviewed. Bill knows he ought to enjoy his break but also knowing that the case is on the verge of being labelled cold, he takes copies of the crime scene photos with him to the small bistro they find close to the station. Angela doesn’t seem to mind. Or if she does, she doesn’t say so; too eager to prove herself.

In the end it’s a good thing she’s with him. He’s absentmindedly digging into his food because he’s rather looking at the pictures of the skeletonized body in its unblessed grave when she says something his mind had started to consider, an unfinished thought he had shelved for later use.

“Bill, I’ve been thinking about the bag around the victim’s head. I know Cayden thinks it might be the murder weapon but it’s almost like, well, it reminds me of a burial cloth somehow.”

Alarmed by the statement Bill looks up from the pictures and into bright green eyes.

“Burial cloth?”

“Yeah, it’s –” she stops, insecure about continuing.

“Go on. Tell me what you think.”

“The body was buried, and the cloth wrapped around its head - Almost like he regrets what he’s done and tried to make amends, atone for his sins by granting the remains some dignity. But he couldn’t face his crime. Literally.”

Pushing a fry into his mouth and taking another, he says, “It’s not regret, believe me. These assholes are incapable of feeling anything close to remorse. Don’t look like that. I’m not saying you’re wrong. You’re on the right track. I’ve been thinking about it, too – the position of the body. And the dumping site. Normally you would bury someone face up, wouldn’t you? Tell me what else could it be.”

Again, his gaze is drawn to the photo; missing bones from Mitchell’s digger leaving gaps in the otherwise intact construct of the decayed body amidst brown earth, six feet under. He gives it to Angela for inspection and picks up his sandwich, waiting for her reply and listens to the buzzing crowd around them eating their lunch.

“The opposite. Indignity. He – he just didn’t care.”

Chewing and swallowing, Bill nods, taking his napkin to dab at his mouth.

“The murderer has most likely depersonalized his victim before he killed it and continued to so after death. It’d served its purpose. Its death was only the ugly result of his deeds and he needed to get rid of it.” 

“You agree with Cayden then?”

Sandwich between his fingers almost forgotten, he puts it between his lips and takes another bite to buy some time. He’s got no answer to the question. Yet.

“Let’s wait for forensics.”

He can see that she’s unhappy with the omission, but there’s nothing else they can glean for now.

Out of the three they interview over the span of the afternoon and into early evening, while everyone leaves the precinct to go home to their families, only Rendall seems promising. Kosinski is a local but has no background of criminal past behavior and reacts way too humanly during the questioning. He’s a deeply religious man who shows genuine concern for the mental well-being of his fellow employees and the unidentified body. Compared to the cocky and slightly off-kilter stranger, his offered help doesn’t feel like a threat, but like a well-meant gesture. A bit overbearing but well-meant. 

Mitchell is a young black man, originally hailing from Savannah, Georgia with no criminal background either and is so honestly open about everything that Angela and Bill quickly agree that it definitely isn’t him. He’s more afraid of being framed for the murder and losing his job just because of some stupid coincidence than anything else. Listening to the way Cayden interrogates him with an air of hostility – as he did with Tyler Davis, the other black man – it isn’t surprising. Luckily, Cayden has enough respect for the FBI’s input to listen to their reasoning.

But the last one, Gary Rendall, cannot claim a clean slate. A quick search in the FBI’s data base yielded a history of assault and a dropped rape charge. They interview him last, after the sun has already set, in an interview room too small to hold four people. Monroe is posed behind Cayden and Bill, leaning against the wall in the corner of the room, watching their interviewee with narrowed eyes. Bill is trying for casual, cigarette dangling between his fingers as Rendall is led to the room.

“Evening,” Cayden greets him and indicates for Rendall to sit opposite them with a simple gesture of his hand.

Rendall, eyes flitting between the three of them, sits down gingerly.

“Smoke?” Bill asks and offers the packet, opening pointing towards Rendall.

He nods, “Thanks” and takes one. His fingers are dirty, showing signs of manual labor and missing body hygiene. It fits the rest of his appearance: unwashed long wavy brown hair, face ashen and pimply. His eyes are glassy as if he’d been drinking all day. It fits Bill’s knowledge of post-offense behavior – except that this crime was very post. A fact which made it harder for Bill to assess the man sitting in front of them.

Cayden waits until Rendall has lit his cigarette, then begins.

“We know Jerry found the body, but he called out to you for confirmation. Can you tell us again, from your perspective, what happened? I’m going to take notes, so take us through this in detail.” 

“There’s isn’t really that much to say, like, I was minding my own business, you know. And then like out of nowhere Jerry’s yelling. I think it took me a while to hear him, with the protective gear and the noise going on, yeah? As soon as I realized that he was trying to get my attention I turned off the engine and walked over to him. I could see that something wasn’t right because he like, he looked spooked, you know. Panicked. He like grabbed my arm and dragged me to this dirt pile next to the hole he was digging. At first I didn’t know what he wanted from me but then I saw it, uhm, them. The bones, I mean.”

“And what did you think was going on?”

Rendall drags the cigarette to his mouth, inhales, then talks while emitting the smoke from his nostrils.

“Well shit what do you think? I thought he had dug them up. He asked me what it was, if it were bones and I told him that it sure as hell were bones. That he was like not imagining things. I was trying to stay calm, you know, like, I tried not to think too hard about it.”

“Why?”

Rendall huffs, “Hell. Might be normal for you to look at dead people all day long but I didn’t really wanna look. It’s scary as shit, okay?”

“What made you look anyway?”

“Jerry wanted me to look. I told him I wouldn’t do it. But he kept insisting. So I think I like cussed at him for being a fucking pussy then took a step closer. And then another, I wasn’t about to admit to him that I was just as scared as he was. So I like stepped to the edge of the hole, looked down and -”

Rendall takes another long drag of his cigarette. His leg begins to bob underneath the table.

“And then I saw it. My heart was going like,” he makes a pumping gesture against his chest, “Told Jerry to tell Kosinski. I mean there was nothing else we could do, right?”

Cayden takes his time writing down bullet points on the lined papers in front of him, secretly waiting if Rendall will be any more forthcoming.

“You’re not local, are you, Gary? Your coworkers mentioned that.”

“No. No, I moved here a few years ago.”

Cayden nods, keeps quiet.

“Uh, my wife, she uhm, she wanted a fresh start.” 

Bill stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray and leans forward.

“Fresh start? Why would she want a fresh start?”

Rendall swallows.

“Am I a suspect or what?”

Bill tilts his head, the corners of his mouth dropping.

“No. Just asking a question, Gary.”

Glancing at the pack of cigarettes on the table he asks, “Can I have another?”

“Sure. Go ahead.”

They wait and watch him light another cigarette.

“I – we had some issues, you know, like marital issues. We got past it, though.”

Bill sighs and takes a long unnecessary look at the files in front of him. Rendall remains quiet.

“Did the assault and rape charge have anything to do with it?”

“I didn’t,” Rendall bursts out before reigning himself in again, “I didn’t rape that woman, okay?” His eyes jump to Monroe in the corner. “I had a few drinks, she was coming on to me, I thought she wanted it, then she goes and like screams at me to leave her alone.”

“You’re telling me she was going along with your advances but then suddenly changed her mind?” Angela asks. “Sounds pretty unconvincing to me.”

“I’m telling you that’s how it was. I know it was wrong, okay? I was drunk and I like got what I deserved.”

“You mean the fine for the assault? The compensation?”

“Yes.”

“What happened that night, Gary? Talk to us.”

“We were leaving –”

“In her statement Miss Martinez said that she was leaving on her own and that you followed her to her car.”

“It wasn’t like that! We left the bar together and then this guy saw that we were fighting –”

Monroe interrupts him, “That she was screaming at you to leave her alone.”

“Yes, man. He saw us and thought he had to play the hero or something. At the time I figured it like wasn’t his business and told him to fuck off. He didn’t, I got angry and punched him.”

“Punch? He was at the hospital for weeks, ruptured eardrum, loose teeth, a fractured jaw.”

“Listen, why am I being interrogated like that, hm? Can’t convict me twice, far as I know.” 

Crossing his arms, Bill leans back.

“Fair enough. You ever did it again?”

“Did what? You mean like – no! I’m telling you, I learned my lesson, alright? Fresh start,” he takes another hurried drag of his second cigarette, before he nearly drops it, revelation written all over his face. “Wait - You think I did this? Like killed some girl and then what? Let myself get hired for the company that’s constructing exactly where I like buried the body? Are you fucking nuts?”

“Watch your tone, Gary,” Cayden interrupts sternly. 

“Okay, yes, so maybe I was a little too drunk that one time and maybe I like did something I’m not proud of. But I wouldn’t kill no one – Jesus Christ. You have to believe me.”

The three of them stay quiet.

Spreading his arms in a gesture of innocence he says, “Listen, Kim and I had a baby. My daughter’s three years old and I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize her or my wife’s well-being, I swear – I had nothing to do with this.” 

*

The next day as three of them sit together at the table in the conference room smelling like tobacco and coffee and hard work, an officer knocks at the door to the room where they’re reading through the interviews in hope of some new insights.

They’ve been talking about Rendall’s behavior since the early morning. A new cork board has been erected, labelled _suspects_. None of the interviewees knew the stranger Bill described to them and so pinned next to a picture of Rendall is an empty square paper with a question mark.

Now, hours later, there’s a knock at the door and an officer looking at three stony faces.

“Detective,” he addresses Cayden, “Father Benjamin is here to see you.”

Cigarette clutched between the fingers of his right hand, Bill regards Cayden over the rim of his glasses. The look he gives him is a clear question. Private matter or work related?

“Send him in,” he replies to the officer decisively, then turns to the agents.

“That should be interesting.”

As Father Benjamin enters the room, clad in a typical priestly outfit, carrying a leather bag, grey hair above a wrinkled weathered face, Cayden stands and approaches him, shaking his hand.

Bill and Angela stay seated.

“Father, these are Agents Monroe and Tench. They’re from the FBI.”

Only now as the priest shuffles towards them, do they rise, Bill first, Angela taking her cue from him and doing the same to shake his hand, speckled with liver spots, but strong for his age. As he shakes Bill’s hand it almost seems like his watery blue eyes try to stare into Bill’s soul. A small shiver runs down his spine, a shiver he tries not to show.

“How can I help you, Father?” Cayden finally asks him and catches his attention.

Turning towards the detective, he answers, “We all read about the gruesome discovery in Mount Pleasant. Have you been able to identify the lost soul yet?”

Briefly Cayden glances at Bill.

“We have not, Father. Unfortunately. May I ask why this concerns you?”

“Of course, dear child. I came to bless the bones in case this was your answer.”

In the silence following the statement one would’ve been able to hear a pin drop.

“That’s very kind, Father. But –”

“No buts, son. Every one of God’s children deserves to be buried in consecrated ground. What has been done to this soul is unforgivable. It needs proper rest, someone telling it to move on.”

Behind the priest’s and Bill’s back, Angela whispers his name in an urgent tone. She too can feel the strangeness radiating from the priest like a dark miasma.

Bill catches the detective’s eyes and nods at Cayden slowly.

“Alright. You’re lucky you came today. The body is going to be transferred to the FBI tomorrow.”

As the three of them get ready to leave, the priest says, “I like to believe it was God guiding me.”

Father Benjamin is the first to exit the room and Bill indicates for Angela to follow him. Going through last, Bill whispers to Cayden, “Call Sharp but don't say why. Just tell him that we need to see the remains before they're gone.”

Understanding reflected in his eyes, Cayden passes him and disappears to make a phone call. Angela and the priest are already outside and as Bill joins them, his colleague visibly swallows white shooting him a very pointed look.

Father Benjamin hasn't stopped talking, has merely changed the topic to educate Monroe on the importance of baptism, asking her if she is still walking on the right path.

“My parents are a great many things, religious isn't one of them, I'm afraid.”

Unbidden, Father Benjamin takes one of her hands, enclosing, trapping it in both of his. Angela, to her credit, tries not to flinch away but Bill can clearly see the discomfort the well-meant gesture evokes.

“It's never too late to let God into your heart.”

His stare is haunting and completely focused on his target. A target which is petrified and steadily getting more and more uncomfortable. Bill is about to tell Father Benjamin to kindly fuck off and save the young woman from any more inappropriate propositions, but Cayden beats him to it. The priest drops Angela's hand as Cayden steps out of the building and tells them that Sharp is waiting for them.

Father Benjamin sits with Cayden in the front seat on the short way to the coroner’s and is engaged in small talk with him while Bill and Angela sit in the back watching him closely.

Bill is progressively getting more and more annoyed with the case and the many people taking an interest in it. As if the media wasn’t bad enough, there’s Kosinski who was damn near begging to help (probably spurred on by the company he’s working for) and now a priest who believes blessing the victim’s bones is his God given duty. Not to forget that stranger from a few days ago.

When they arrive at the coroner’s and Cayden turns off the engine, Father Benjamin takes a deep breath, crosses himself and starts muttering something under his breath. It’s distressingly intimate and feels like something neither of them should see.

Finished with whatever prayer he’s just spoken, the priest, wearing an expression of concentration and determination grabs his leather bag and exits the vehicle. Surprised by his focus, they scramble to follow and reach the building just as Father Benjamin walks inside. They watch as he ignores Sharp’s secretary asking his name and to state his business, even as she’s hurrying and calling after him to stop.

Bill picks up his speed, urging his companions on as well and just as the priest rounds the corner leading to the mortuary, they hear another pair of footsteps and Sharp addressing him, “Father Benjamin? What are you doing here?” 

Bill reaches the upset secretary, lays a gentle hand on her upper arm. “It’s alright, Ma’am. We’ll take it from here.”

Clutching her necklace, she turns to look at them and recognizes Detective Cayden standing next to Bill.

“Oh, thank God,” she sighs and nods at them.

Sharp looks past Father Benjamin with a frown.

“What’s going on?”

“We’re here because Father Benjamin would like to bless the bones as a, uh, generous gesture of farewell. To make sure the victim’s soul is send to the afterlife,” he says behind the priest's back, signaling for Sharp to play along as he realizes that Sharp is well and truly confused by the priest’s presence.

His comprehension comes in the form of a cough and a stutter, “Of – of course.” Looking at the priest’s focused blue eyes, then turning around he continues, “This way, please.”

Standing in front of the bones a second time only makes Bill’s skin crawl. Especially now that the priest is burning incense in a warmer and filling the air with its cloying oppressive scent. The foggy scene before him conjures memories from his childhood he’d rather not remember – Sunday mornings in church, dressed in his best shirts and listening to the theatricals of holy man, standing and crossing himself, sitting, kneeling, crossing himself again; looking up at the menacingly smiling face of the priest and opening his mouth to receive the metaphorical body of Christ. He stopped believing in God when he joined the army and if there had been any devotion left in him after that, he’d lost the rest in the FBI. And yet, smelling the incense, being objected to this ritual, makes him question (and deep down hope) if (that) there truly is a kinder place after death.

Father Benjamin crosses himself, tilts his head downwards for a few silent seconds. Seconds in which Bill begins to feel sluggish all of a sudden and wonders if the reason for this swift change is the combination of the burning incense and the priest gathering his strength by siphoning off the occupants’ in the room to do so.

Then, unbothered by his audience he stretches his arm towards the bones. Bill sees Sharp twitch, ready to drag the priest away, but he doesn’t touch them. His hand hovers over the skull as he recites his prayer, “St. Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle. Be our defense against the wickedness and snares of the Devil. May God rebuke him, we humbly pray, and do thou, O Prince of the heavenly hosts, by the power of God, thrust into hell Satan, and all the evil spirits, who prowl about the world seeking the ruin of souls. Amen.”

His words echo and boom in the otherwise sterile room.

“May you find peace elsewhere, child.”

He produces a rosary from his bag, reciting the Lord’s Prayer with every bead gliding through his fingers.

At last he crosses himself one last time and turns away from the remains to regard his audience with a small satisfied smile and begins to gather his things.

Bill turns his head in sync with Angela and shares a look with her, which conveys just how creeped out they are by this supposed upstanding denizen of Charleston.

Once they are back at the police station and have put Father Benjamin’s picture up on the suspect board, they start discussing him, adding personal background information underneath the picture of him standing in front of the Sacred Heart Catholic Church. 

As the day comes to an end, Cayden turns to him as Bill is picking up his briefcase and jacket, ready to go. And think about the case in his hotel room.

“Are you certain it’s one of them?” he asks with raised eyebrows, his hands on his hips.

“We can’t be certain of anything. I said it might be one of them. Some killers like to revisit the crime scenes and put themselves into the investigation.”

“My instincts tell me they had nothing to do with it.”

“Instincts are important, Detective, but don’t be misled by them.”

Angela is simply watching the exchange, packing her bag. As they leave the department, on their way to leaving the building, a young officer comes jogging towards them, clutching an envelope in his hand. Having reached them he stops and looks at Bill, “Your photos, Sir. Sorry it took so long.”

“No worries. Thank you,” Bill smiles, trying to placate the young man who nods and wishes them a nice evening. 

Just like yesterday, and the day before that, Angela is the one to get the car and drop him off at his hotel, unlike the first day the strange man doesn’t appear, yet again. As she drops him off, Bill watches until her car disappears around the corner, then enters the foyer of his hotel and eventually his stuffy room. Even though it’s late by the time he arrives, has showered and has taken a seat on one of the armchairs, he’s still buzzing with nervous energy. Smoking and drinking in semi-darkness don’t help. Not long after, he’s on his feet again and leaves his room, briefcase in hand with the decision made to find a place to think.

Back outside, subjected to the relentless heat settling over his body like a blanket even during the night, his gaze wanders to a church a few houses down the road, strangely bright and illuminated in the darkness, and turns the other way in search of a nice, quiet diner.

He doesn’t have to walk around aimlessly for long.

A few blocks away, sweetly tucked away in a backstreet sits a diner which looks clean enough and at the same time not too crowded to be too noisy. His footfalls echo as he walks along the narrow alley towards his goal, shadows stretching into the darkness behind him. The bell above the door rings as he enters a diner which looks like it’s perpetually stuck in the 50s and a dark-skinned middle-aged woman in a mustard yellow outfit greets him, while carrying her coffee pot to two other guests sitting in a corner, lost in each other. She tells him to choose a seat and passes him to serve them. Only one other guest, with a grey suit and a bowler hat, who sits at the counter, is present. Contrary to some other establishments, the music emerging from the loudspeakers has an enchanting southern twang to it. 

Bill opts for a cherry red booth next to the window looking out into the littered little yard and the darkened narrow alley from which he came from.

“What can I get ya?”

Bill turns to look at the waitress. Rosie, her name tag says. Strange. He didn’t hear her coming over.

“Uh, how about a burger and some lemonade?”

Pink bubblegum emerges from her mouth before she pops it, scribbling down his order all the while and leaves with a, “Gotcha.”

Puzzled by her weird demeanor, Bill shakes his head and pulls the photos and notes from his briefcase. As he organizes them on the table, Rosie appears with his lemonade, which on closer examination suspiciously looks like sweet tea and is decorated with some kind of fruit floating gently in the glass. Bill’s not sure if it’s supposed to be peach or something else. It’s kind of hard to make out. Sighing and deciding that it really doesn’t matter, he lights a cigarette, puts on his glasses and grabs the stack of developed photos in front of him.

Slowly, examining the crime scene through these pictures again, he shuffles through them; inspects the grainy empty grave, the shutdown construction around it. Such a peculiar dumping site. When he reaches the panorama shot he’d taken, his body, responding before his brain registers the cause, stiffens. He takes a double take and sits up straighter in his seat before leaning over the photo, muttering, “What the fuck?” The music fades as he’s leaning closer and closer, so close he’s nearly sucked into the image. 

There, in the background at the edge of the woods, there where he’d thought his eyes had played a trick on him, he again sees something strange. Something which almost looks like – a human shape. It’s hard to see; dwarfish the way it stands in the background – and what’s that protruding from its side? Is that an – outstretched arm pointing to – ?

“Did you talk to the builders?” 

Jumping in his seat, Bill looks up from the photograph and schools his expression into a grimace, pulling his glasses from his face, attention rudely redirected to the stranger. 

“You again.”

“Yes, me. Did you expect someone else?”

“No. In fact, I didn’t expect anyone. How the hell did you find me? Are you stalking me? You know stalking a federal agent isn’t a good idea, right?”

The stranger’s hands are folded atop the table, his pointer tapping against his knuckles. As last time he’s dressed all prim and proper, sitting across from Bill as if they were old friends. 

“Please, don’t be ridiculous. Did you? Talk to them, I mean.”

“None of your business.”

“So you did. I guess it wasn’t too fruitful. Well, it was a long shot, but then again where else to begin, right?” Slightly leaning forward he glances at the photographs on the table, head tilting sideways in the process, exposing the vulnerable side of his neck, the mole on his jaw, “Ah that’s the dumping site. Pretty secluded place, don’t you think? Someone went to a lot of trouble to hide it. What’s that? That thing in the background?”

“Pretty involved in this, aren’t you? Pretty suspicious, don’t you think?” says sarcastically. 

The stranger turns his gaze from the pictures scattered on the table to Bill, face carefully showing nothing, a mask of neutrality, and leans back into his own space. His finger taps against his entangled knuckles. There’s an air of vulnerability, even sadness, to his whole mien, yet the way he holds himself upright as if moved by invisible strings is too artificial and posed. As if every move is rehearsed to deflect any doubt about his sincerity. It’s – unnatural. It freaks Bill out. It unearths some protective instincts entombed inside of him -- Why? 

“You better tell me who you are.”

“Is it really that important to you who I am?”

Bill doesn’t answer, let’s the silence speak for itself. 

“That’s good, I guess. How about I’m a concerned citizen who wants to help.”

“This city seems to have plenty of those.”

The stranger’s eyes narrow.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Bill shakes his head and collects the photographs from the table to put them back into his briefcase.

“Nothing. Tell me who you are. Or I’m going to arrest you for obstruction of justice.”

An empty expression washes over the stranger’s face and his eyes look out the window, searching for something in the distance. It feels like they’ve been sitting here for hours before he turns back around just as Bill fumbles for another cigarette, tapping it out of the packet, the emptiness in his eyes gone and replaced with determination. 

“My name’s Holden. And you’re not going to arrest me. On what grounds? Because I’m asking questions? C’mon. Humor me, Bill.” 

“Humor you?” he asks incredulously, tapping ash off his newly lit cigarette.

“Well, yes. I could be of use to you.”

The way he says it, the way his eyes sparkle as he leans slightly forward into Bill’s space…is he-

“Are you flirting with me?”

The man – Holden – looks shocked at being exposed. Bill merely thinks that this guy is unbelievable.

“Would it be of benefit?”

“Wow. You’re seriously this shameless?”

“I just want to help.”

“Help? You know what – from my perspective, you could very well be my prime suspect. No one knows who you really are and for all I know Holden could be a fake name. Not to mention the stalking.”

At Bill’s statement, he – Holden – takes a deep breath and glares at him. Seeing that Bill is not affected by it at all, his head turns away while he’s visibly biting the inside of his cheek, eyes tracking Rosie walking to the couple in the corner. 

“I can explain, I promise,” he implores with intense blue eyes boring into Bill. 

“Well go ahead, I’m all ears.”

“It’s not that simple.” 

“Ah, not that simple, yes?”

“Yes. You wouldn’t believe me.”

“Nothing will change then.”

Holden huffs, exasperated.“Is there any way I can win your trust?”

Bill says nothing.

At Bill’s continuing silence, he glares again. And stands up, looking down at Bill with balled fists.

“Fine. Did you check for missing persons at least?”

Bill says nothing.

Instead he’s inhaling nicotine, blowing it into Holden’s direction and watching it dissipate in the charged air between them. Sensing that he won’t obtain any information from Bill, he turns on his heel and begins to walk away. Bill watches him until he disappears into the night, counts to five, then gathers his things hastily and leaves in the hopes that he might see where he’s going, anything that might tell him something other than a potentially fake name and some obscure subterfuge to insert himself into the investigation.

As he follows the stranger into the night, his barely drunk sweet tea forgotten, collects condensation on the table, water gathering underneath the glass, waiting for food that has never arrived. The man at the counter hasn’t moved and Rosie is once again walking over to the couple in the corner to serve them more coffee. The song hasn’t changed. 

By the time Bill emerges from the alley, that Holden guy is gone and nowhere in sight. Again.

He walks back to the hotel, replaying the conversation in his head, sure that the man has something to do with the murder. Bill is convinced that Holden is involved in the crime, desperately searching for a way to cover up a secret, or his tracks, is the culprit. 

Later on, as he’s lying in his bed, tossing and turning because the encounter just won’t leave his racing mind, Bill wonders how the other man had known his name. 

*

On his last evening before Bill must return to Quantico for an appointed upcoming trial, he doesn’t immediately leave the car as Angela drops him off at the hotel. Beforehand, back at the police station, Bill showed the pictures he’d taken to Angela, sans the one with the apparition, to see if she could provide any input. Although she is good at erecting a wall of authority around her, he’s realized that she had a hard time getting a word in. Bill is under no illusion that she is an intelligent individual with some good ideas and intuition, but hamstrung by the patriarchal environment of law enforcement. _A team player and a creative thinker_ , Bill thought, _traits which can be harnessed and refined to be of value in the BSU_. By showing her the pictures, he frankly wanted to see which conclusions she could come to, if there were connections she was able to draw. And she did to his immense satisfaction. Comparing his photos with the photos from the freshly established crime scene, she stated what Bill had thought the first time he’d seen the burial slash construction site. If he wanted her to create profiles, she’d need to start somewhere, needed to understand his approach. 

Turning to her now he tells her to advice Captain Reynolds on going through the missing persons reports, to talk to the press and ask the public if they know of anyone having gone missing in the past or any strange occurrences that would warrant police involvement, to round up any known sex offender and interrogate them and most notably to keep an eye on Father Benjamin. To his own surprise, he doesn’t mention his conversation with Holden. 

There isn’t anything else they can do while they wait for lab results to come back to them, unless perhaps putting the workers under observation. But since they have agreed that none of them had any motive to commit the crime, with the exception of Rendall, this seems like a waste of time and resources. As long as he was staying in the city, they could get back to him upon Bill’s return.

Angela gives him a rare smile as he finishes his instructions, hand on the handle, “I’ll take a taxi to the airport. No need to pick me up. You can go straight to the station and hold the fort while I’m gone. When I’m back, I’ll rent my own car.” 

“Sure thing, boss. And thanks for the opportunity.”

“Good night, Monroe,” Bill smiles back.

As Bill leaves for the airport the next morning, he truly hopes that she had a better night than he, seeing as he was plagued by nightmarish scenes he couldn’t remember as he woke up, feeling absolutely whacked and thinking to himself that he’s getting too old for this shit. Retirement becomes more and more attractive as the plane takes off and he finally falls into a deep slumber, lulled to sleep by the steady droning sound of the plane’s engines, not the prospect of home. 

A gentle, smooth voice asks him _Is it really that important to you who I am_ _?_

.

.

.

_Yes -_

_Tell me your secrets._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks goes out to lapsi for reading the chapter in advance even though you were busy ❤️

Bill is storming out the courthouse, fuming with white hot anger, close to cursing and starting a fight with a random lawyer to let off some steam. Instead he walks down a few steps with feet stomping on grey granite stairs and scrambles for his cigarettes, only to see that he needs to buy a new packet soon. Under his breath the curse breaks free at length while he sticks the last cigarette into his mouth. Just as the flame of the lighter bursts to life and kindles the tip, Wendy comes walking out the building and joins him, looking like a real academic in her black blouse and pencil skirt.

“It’s not over yet, Bill. It’s the second day of testimony.”

“It might as well be. What good is breaking our backs if the jury doesn’t understand what we do? You don’t get it – I have to answer to the FBI. If I don’t produce positive results, this is over. My department is closed, I lose my job. Banned to some fucking desk job and forgotten.”

Wendy regards him with an analytical gaze, her forehead wrinkled.

“I believe there is something else on your mind. Your anger isn’t entirely owed to this trial.”

Sighing, Bill rubs his knuckles over his forehead, smoke drifting into his eyes, not knowing whether to curse his luck or feel grateful for his good fortune of having a friend who knows him so well.

“Let’s go somewhere else. I need a drink.”

Sitting in a bar a few blocks away from the courthouse and nursing a whiskey, Bill tells Wendy about the case in South Carolina.

“Well, until you know who your victim is and how she died, your hands are tied. Don’t be upset over things that are out of your control. Half of what we do is based on victimology,” she says, practical as ever while tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“I know. It’s just – something about this case doesn’t feel right. I – I don’t feel right.”

“What do you mean?”

Bill stares into the glass, swirling the whiskey.

“I have a hard time grasping a decent thought. Nightmares. And this weird man keeps seeking me out, asking me questions about the case.”

“He’s inserting himself into the investigation?”

“Hm. Pretty sure he’s got something to hide. But – I feel like I’m missing something obvious, you know? Something right in front of me.” He doesn’t look at her as he downs the contents of his glass at one fell swoop. 

Wendy waits for him to finish, speaking once she knows she’s got his full attention, “I’m going to ask you something you might not want to hear.”

“Go ahead.”

“Have you been excessively drinking on the case?”

Stunned by her question, Bill blinks. Before answering, he seriously has to tamp down on the desire to hurl an insult at her before mumbling through gritted teeth, “No, I have not.” And it’s the truth. Strangely enough he hasn’t.

“Alright. Is there anything else in your life which bothers you?”

Lonely nights in front of the TV flash through his mind, his lack of friends, Nancy’s anger and disappointment, Brian’s psychological problems. He wishes he had a cigarette to hide behind. He tries to put on his most nonchalant face instead. “Not really.”

She looks like she doesn’t believe him but keeps quiet on the topic out of mutual respect for each other. During the heyday of the study they disagreed often, they still sometimes do. However, at the end of the day their relationship is based on fondness, appreciation, and the desire to create something revolutionary. Yet anything bordering on more personal topics barely has a place in it. And that isn’t about to change, just because Bill thinks he’s losing his goddamn mind.

Luckily he doesn’t have to return to the trial as an expert and with no intention to return as a spectator, he can focus on the on-going case, his family. He spends the weekend with an unresponsive and shelled Brian, catching himself thinking about statements and the body and Holden now and again. Taking a walk through the woods with his boy certainly didn’t help to quell his wandering mind.

Nancy picks Brian up on Sunday evening; his son basically rushing back to her side, as if happy to get away from him, to hug her. It couldn’t be more obvious what his feelings for Bill are. He tries to pretend that it doesn’t upset him as she presses Brian into her hip while talking to Bill as if he were a criminal who’d kidnapped her precious child. He barely registers what they’re talking about, his mind chalking it up to unimportant small talk. She’s grown her hair out, wearing it, according to the current fashion, in voluminous waves instead of curls like so many other women do. She looks good, happy.

“How is Kurt?”

There’s an embarrassed silence on both sides. Bill doesn’t know why he blurred the question. It really isn’t his business. They don’t talk about such things. Their conversations, since the divorce and if Bill is honest even before then, have been reduced to managing Brian’s upbringing and well-being. “Forget it, sorry. I was just – You look good, Nance. Take care.”

She smiles at him, rubbing a soothing hand over his shoulder, “You too, Bill” and leaves, Brian clinging to her hand until he’s seated in her car. How long until he’ll stop this pattern of behavior? Until he’s hit by the full extent of puberty? 

Bill waves them goodbye as Nancy reverses out his driveway, then returns back inside his empty house. He hasn’t even repacked his bag. It’s still sitting in the hallway, judging him for his sloppiness. Bill shrugs and walks past it. He’ll take care of it when the time comes, when he flies back down to Charleston.

(He doesn’t. The day he flies back he wakes up from a hangover and nearly misses his machine. In the ensued self-made chaos, the bag is haphazardly packed, with some new shirts thrown on top of the old, and the forensic report like shabby icing on a very shitty cake. A cake that is Bill’s life.)

On Friday he’s got an appointment with Dr. Johnson. Or Neil, as he introduces himself, shaking Bill’s hand in his sparse office. It lacks the elaborate decoration he’s used to from Gunn’s. There’s a desk, two chairs in front of it, one shelf with textbooks and a whole bunch of filing cabinets. The interior shows clear signs of someone who rather spends his time out in the field or in a lab instead of behind his desk.

He starts ruffling through the files stacked on his desk as they sit down. Seeing how many there are, makes Bill sigh inwardly with the realization that despite their best efforts, crime will never end.

“Riiiight. Just a moment, Bill, I’m – ah, there it is. Phew, let’s see. Here’s a copy.” 

Neil pushes a copy across the table and opens the original in front of him.

“Certainly an interesting case, isn’t it? Summerset was delighted. That man,” he shakes his head, “one of our brightest but a little outlandish himself. It’s like water off a duck's back. For example – you remember the case up in Michigan I told you about? Burned bodies of a family. Apparently, the father set fire to his wife and child. And then himself. Now, when I see shit like that I think of my own children. He just – walks in there, does his thing and moves on.”

Bill shrugs, thinking of Monroe and her calm, calculating appearance, “Some people are just unaffected, I guess. Could use some of that myself sometimes.”

“Right? So let’s see. You came here to talk about your case. Hmhm. Your UID is a John Doe. Congratulations. Oh, you look surprised.”

“Not surprised, just – yeah okay a little surprised.”

“Well expect the unexpected as my mentor liked to say. So John Doe is a young adult, Caucasian, and looking at the pubic symphysis somewhere between 18 and 35; pubic symphysis is where the – sorry, that doesn’t really concern you. Okay. Uhm, based on the location and the skeletonization, he’s definitely been buried for longer than six months. And have a look at this.”

Johnson reaches for a photograph of the skull, a close-up taken viewed from the back of the head, and taps his finger on a perceptible fracture, about two inches long, between the occipital and parietal bone.

“Fresh. Could be the reason for his death. A wound like that either caused the victim to be unconscious and bleeding or might even have killed him. Either way, he was hit hard enough to leave a fracture. The cracked ribs happened post-mortem and recently, we think it was the builder’s doing as he dug into the skeleton. Some small fragments seem to have been lost during construction. Hmm, what else? There’s a minor healed injury to the first sternal rib and the right clavicle, but it’s old, probably from the victim’s childhood. I’m guessing he fell and broke the bones, happens to kids all the time. And - His teeth were perfect. Once you have a possible victim, find his dentist. We can assure identification via those beautiful choppers.”

Reading through the report while listening to Dr. Johnson, Bill nods and nods and nods, overwhelmed with new information to work with and the forensic scientist’s rapid way of talking.

“You said buried for longer than six months? Can you estimate how long?”

Neil leans back in his chair, scratching his chin. “No, unfortunately not. But I’m waiting for the day it’s possible. Going by the photographs and the cloth it’s likely several years, perhaps even decades.”

“Decades?!” 

“Yeah.”

“How am I supposed to find someone who was killed decades ago?”

“I’m not saying it was decades ago, I’m saying it could be. And Bill, even if this is the case, there’s nothing you can do. You know better than I do that some cases just become ice cold. All we can do is try our best.”

Johnson doesn’t need to say that _our best sometimes isn’t enough_. Bill knows. He knows so very well how sometimes blood, sweat and tears aren’t enough. Which doesn’t make it easier. Based on the way Johnson bites his lip to keep himself from saying anything else he can see that Bill is not satisfied.

Reports clutched in his hand he takes the elevator down to his department. Locked in his office he might be able to read through the autopsy report and the forensic analysis of the cloth in peace to compile some basic information for a profile.

But it doesn’t transpire the way he wanted. The moment he sets foot into the annex he is swarmed by people asking for his opinion on a case or wanting to conduct small talk after his absence. He is so caught up in colleagues and other cases that by the time he reaches his office he’s, theoretically, too exhausted to look through his own files. Practically he sits down and starts going through the file top to bottom once again.

Cigarette lying forgotten against the black plastic ashtray, he rubs at his forehead in slow circles and reads through his notes, then puts them aside to look at the photos. Despite him wearing his glasses, the pictures begin to blur as time passes. And as he reaches the one with the unrecognizable shape in the background the feeling of distortion only gets worse, has him narrow his eyes.

Too focused on the figure, he reaches for his cigarette without looking at it.

Before he can reach it, or so he thinks a second later, the ashtray falls to the ground with a loud clattering noise, ensuring that Bill, whose heart is racing from the loud crash, looks to the ground where his cigarette, still burning lies next to ashtray, ashes scattered all over the floor. He can’t remember putting it this close to the edge…

Must be the exhaustion, he decides. A look outside his window shows that everyone else is gone, fluorescent lights illuminating tidied up tables. Sighing, Bill kneels to clean up the mess, takes the case file which is getting thicker with each new added confusing puzzle piece and leaves the building to get a drink (or two) at his favorite bar. Tomorrow he’ll be leaving for Charleston. Plenty of time to go over the files during the flight. 

*

Arriving back in Charleston after a two-week absence, on a late sweltering afternoon instead of a humid morning due to delays, he’s greeted by fatigue and frustration. Cayden and Monroe give him a quick overview of the current state of the investigation: Father Benjamin is still under observation with no more strange occurrences to speak of (except that his preaching style is seriously irritating according to Angela who attended one of his sermons) and Rendall and his family are still in the city, apparently laying low.

When they hear from a Bill (whose eyes are bloodshot, and in desperate need of a shower) that there’s no easy way to narrow down the pool of possible victims, both of them sigh and show Bill the huge pile of missing persons reports in and around the area of Charleston County. Quickly it becomes startlingly clear that they’ll have to work their way through it in hopes that one of the missing fits the victim.

As he scans the room, and after observing how everyone is practically dead on their feet, Bill thanks the both of them and tells them to go home, happy to go home, or well back to the hotel, early as well. Monroe, before leaving, hands him the stack of conducted and transcribed interviews from the local sex offenders.

By the time he’s back at his hotel, the same as last one, and spreads out the forensic report, the interviews and photos on his bed, and stares at the items, he realizes that his concentration is shot, his eyes unable to focus on the printed black on white. All he’s seeing are black dots upon black dots. He spent the whole flight back to Charleston going over every detail in Summerset’s and Johnson’s report, meticulously reading what their expert opinions came up with, picking apart the photos, the evidence.

Rubbing the knuckles of his right hand over tired eyes, he has to admit that his state isn’t solely due to his tiredness but also partially because, or maybe mostly because, he was drunk the night before, even if he wants to deny it to himself. What he needs, he figures, is fresh air, not another bunch of papers to be read, a shower and a few hours of shuteye. Preferably in that order. 

Driving along nocturnal streets with rolled down windows following the sounds of the seagulls and the water, and away from the noisy hub of the inner city, Bill eventually ends up by the ocean. He finds a spot to park the car and wanders along the promenade for a while until his tired feet carry him to a bench framed by palms and neatly cut grass and the streetlamps casting their atrabilious light in little yellow dots along the sidewalk, on Bill.

Near the ocean the air is fresher, less humid and oppressing, smelling of seaweed. The waves are gently lapping at the waterfront; the ocean’s tide calm and content like a mother rocking her baby to sleep. If only Bill could say the same about his mental state. The longer he sits and smokes and stares into the darkness, the more he feels like giving himself to the water, filling his pockets with stones and just sinking. Sinking beneath a cold wet grave. And end it. All of it. 

He’s being pulled from his mental downward spiral, pulled from the crashing dark waves of his thoughts by non-other than his own personal pain in the ass, one Holden the Stalker, whose voice seems to combine with the rushing of the water in the background. “Hi Bill.”

“Hello Holden.”

Holden appears differently this time, more disheveled. His hair isn’t neatly combed back, curls softly waving in the breeze. The two top buttons of his pristine white shirt are undone and he’s missing a tie.

“Are you okay? You look – haunted,” he says.

“That’s a new one,” Bill chuckles, looking at Holden as he sits down next to Bill on the bench, body turned towards him fully and completely, leg draped sideways to accommodate the awkward angle.

“What is?”

“Asking about my well-being. Usually you just turn up and demand answers.”

Holden nervously combs his hair.

“I’m – sorry. In my defense, you think I’m a suspect.”

Bill lets him stew in his own comment, watches him fuss with dirt on his collar before affording him an answer, “Not anymore.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Why? A fortnight ago you wanted to arrest me.”

“Because our victim was killed many years ago. And looking at you, I’m guessing you’re early twenties. You would’ve been an adolescent then, younger maybe. So,” he produces a new cigarette, “Unlikely that it was you.”

“Because children can’t kill other people?”

“Because these types of crimes are usually committed by adults. You must develop a certain kind of mindset for a long period of time before acting on your fantasies. The – execution usually starts right around your age, early to mid-twenties,” he inhales and mumbles barely audible, “And besides, pubescents are never this organized.”

Holden beholds him with something akin to awe, luckily not picking up how uncomfortable Bill has gotten in the span of a few seconds. How close to home it hits. 

“How do you know this stuff?”

“It’s my job,” deciding to humor Holden, he continues, “I study criminal behavior in order to catch them. I create a profile, a psychological fingerprint of the killer’s mind, and hand it to the local police and hope they will find someone fitting my descriptions.”

“And how do you know what they think? How do you figure out this psychological fingerprint?”

“By talking to them.”

“Talking to them? You mean the murderers.”

“Yes. I interview incarcerated offenders of violent crimes.” Seeing Holden’s expression, Bill mocks, “Shut your mouth, you’ll catch a fly.”

“What can you say about this one?”

Bill inhales deeply, filling his lungs with smoke. He thinks of the crime scene, the victim, the things he’s learnt. Exhales. Puts the pieces together. So easy, with the ocean breeze cooling his mind and body. “Well. Like I said, male, probably white, but could potentially also be black. Age is hard to predict, but I’m guessing somewhere between thirties and fifties. Must be someone strong, another excluding criterion for a teenager. The perpetrator was strong enough to strike the victim over the head and likely kill it with one blow. He buried the remains in a secluded spot, so must be local. Can’t be a drifter or someone passing by, he would’ve left the body somewhere else, somewhere visible, because he wouldn't've cared about someone finding it. He wouldn’t’ve gone to the lengths to bury it. Can’t be someone close to the victim. They usually kill and make the killing look like an accident or suicide. Someone from this area picked someone being at the wrong place at the wrong time. He must have a van or similar vehicle, something he could comfortably store an unconscious body in and something he would feel comfortable driving around with for hours. These types tend to hunt during the night.”

“Hunt? Like a hunter stalking its prey?”

“Exactly. The cloth around the victim’s head was actually a t-shirt with extremely faded font. We didn’t get any fingerprints, but we could decipher the words _Beach_ , so we think his hunting radius is along the coast. He drives all night until he finds someone suitable, maybe watches his potential victims for a certain amount of time before taking them.”

“That sounds –”

“What? What does it sound like?” Bill hisses, hackles rising, regret bursting the bubble of serenity like a sledgehammer to a wall. 

“Like magic. You know all that just from looking at the body, one piece of evidence and the crime scene?”

“Magic has nothing to do with it. It’s simple groundwork. Paired with insights we deducted in a scientific manner. Jesus fucking – why am I justifying myself to you? Why am I telling you all this?”

“So you think he’s killing regularly? Explain it to me. What if it was a one-time thing?” 

“No. If it had been, he would’ve left something behind or wouldn’t have buried the body. Unorganized and – acting on a sudden impulse. This was very thought through and doesn’t feel like his first time. Gacy buried dozens of bodies underneath his house before he got caught.”

Holden blinks, eyebrows drawn together and muttering the name under his breath. Then Bill watches as Holden leans slightly forward into his space. He’s keeping his distance, but he’s weirdly intense, the way he looks at him all big doe eyes, harboring fascination and secrets.

“You’re saying it was a man. What makes you think it wasn’t a woman? Are they not capable of doing great harm?”

Unable to hold Holden’s piercing stare any longer, Bill evades it by picking imaginary dirt from underneath his fingernails.

“Women’s violence is either against themselves or expressed in more – psychological ways.”

When Bill finally finds the courage again to look at Holden, he’s taken his previous position. The only part of him reaching out to Bill is his arm stretched along the backrest.

“You sound like you know a thing or two about that.”

“I was married for a long time.” _Why am I telling him this?_

“Unhappily, I guess. What happened?”

“What always happens.” Bill listens to the waves receding from the shore. How can it be that a complete stranger pinpointed his most hidden vulnerability? The thing which made and still makes him question himself? The pain which has been gnawing on him since he was a young man, since the incident with Brian, since the divorce – God, how he wants to unburden himself, how bad he wants some reassurance. “I didn’t know how to be a father and when push came to shove, I couldn’t do right by her. I –I was a coward. We’ve been having problems for years when she – Nancy – when she wanted a baby. We thought it could mend the rift between us. Give us something that truly belonged to us, you know? But that’s not how it works. You can’t run away from your problems, you can’t drink them away, they don’t simply disappear, and a child is no surrogate for missing romantic feelings.” 

Lost in conversation he didn’t register how his hand, holding his dwindling cigarette between his fingers, is mirroring Holden’s position. He notices only as he raises it to take a long drag of his cigarette and puts it back across the backrest. And as his hand is inches away from brushing Holden’s, the other man moves his away. The gesture is supposed to look trivial. But Bill sees it. Sees the little twitch. Sees that Holden doesn’t draw his hand back completely. _What a strange, alluring creature this man is_ , Bill thinks. Desiring to be close but never too close, coming and going like waves kissing the shoreline every so often. 

“And now?” he hums gently. 

Bill smiles. “Now I’m telling a stranger my pitiful life story.”

“I know. That’s not what I meant. No wife and I’m guessing your child lives with her. You’re always up at night, hardly getting any sleep and during the day you’re always working. It almost seems like – I gotta ask… Do you feel very lonely, Bill?”

He doesn’t know how to answer that question, doesn’t know if he wants to. Can’t muster the energy to be angry at the inquisitive tone, deflects in place of - “Never said I’m lonely.” Shit. Too earnest, too gloomy.

Unearthing the underlying truth, unable to let it go, Holden digs deeper, eyes solely focused on Bill, “But you are, aren’t you?”

“Back off, Holden, or I will go through with my initial threat.” He already said too much.

Sensing a dead end, Holden changes the subject. “If you believe this wasn’t his first kill, did you consider searching for other bodies?”

“Yes.”

“But you didn’t.”

Bill shakes his head. Holden leans closer again, a smooth gesture followed by words spoken in an insistent way, hushed as if afraid someone might overhear something indecent, “Maybe you should.” He holds Bill’s gaze for several long moments from beneath his lashes, blue enticing eyes simmering with sobriety, before severing the tender budding connection by standing.

Bill doesn’t want him to leave.

“What do you think you’re doing - you say some ominous bullshit and leave? Where are you going?”

There’s that sadness again as he half-heartily smiles at Bill. “Don’t worry, Bill. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Sit down then,” he demands and seeing Holden opening his mouth, adds, “at least until I’ve finished my cigarette.”

Silently Holden glides back on the bench, “Okay. Does that mean you trust me?”

Bill sighs, emitting smoke from his nostrils.

The moon, fat and full, illuminates the dark waves in front of them. Its sway over the water, a calm and gentle affair.

*****

Early next morning Bill writes down his temporary profile, briefs his colleagues on it and pins it to the wall. While he’s at it, the empty square with the question mark is put down and thrown away. If Holden really is press, the profile will also end up in the papers and maybe prompt some witnesses to talk to them. In the cold light of day, Bill reflects that he should have asked Holden about his job or any other personal information; how to get in contact for one –

The thought is dismissed in favor of asking Cayden for some manpower to help dealing with the paperwork. Cayden shakes his head. In confidence he tells him that Wilson hopes the case will become cold; no unnecessary expended efforts if they don’t have to deal with any satanic cult. The only reason he hadn’t pulled the plug on the FBI was the pending autopsy on the skeleton. Cayden thinks they won’t have much time left to solve this before Wilson bows to the pressure of the building company and shelves the case.

By midday, and after such a sobering yet expected revelation, Bill and Angela are deeply involved with the missing persons reports and the conducted interviews when the phone rings. For the moment it’s ignored in favor of reading another vacuous statement, while thinking they might have to broaden the interviews to anyone previously convicted. They’re interrupted by Cayden who knocks on the table to catch their attention.

“A woman claiming her neighbor did it just called.”

Monroe, dropping the files, says astonished, “What? Seriously? What made her come forward?”

“Don’t know. She asked if we could come over, lives in Mount Pleasant. Said she needed to talk to us urgently.”

They share a look. Bill is the first to speak with a shrug, “Could use a break from the paperwork.”

It doesn’t take long for them to arrive at the address she’s given – the very outskirts of town, not far from the pieces of land under construction. She lives in the very parts Bill had first commented on upon his arrival in Charleston.

The police car comes to a halt on the side of the road in front of a driveway overgrown with wild bushes. They leave the car; the doors being closed the only sound beside the constant singing of the cicadas. Walking down the pathway to the big house whose wooden façade has definitely seen better days, Bill is once again struck by the visible decay. In front of the house stands a big oak tree, the Spanish Moss on it swaying in the hot humid air, Kudzu beginning to wrap itself around the trunk, eating its way upward. It already covers huge portions of the surrounding area. 

Cayden is the one to carefully knock on the door, fearing to be the reason for the house’s complete collapse. With a squeaking noise the door opens and through the lattice door they see an elderly woman and a cat worming itself between her legs. A strange herbal smell emits from the inside.

“Ma’am. I’m Detective Cayden, these are my associates from the FBI. We talked on the phone.” 

“Come in, Detective. And you, too, Agents -?”

“Tench” and “Monroe” they say as they enter the dimly lit interior. 

She leads them deeper into the bowels of the cluttered house and into the kitchen, where the three of them are eagerly awaiting a conversation with the woman. She doesn’t look like a reliable witness with her shaggy grey long hair, emaciated figure and sunken eyes. Her hands, adorning long untrimmed fingernails, are clutching the cat to her chest.

She indicates for them to take a seat and they do, crammed close together at the small table, sitting on chairs, none resembling the other. There are jars with herbs and pickled fruit on wobbly shelves, some fresh herbs hang on walls awaiting death by dryness. A tea kettle is hissing on the stove. Chipped china with different motives and colors is set in front of them and filled with the hot water from the kettle.

“I know you’d usually serve sweet tea but I’m not a big fan of sweet things. Rots the brain,” she explains as she sits down at the table, diagonally from them. As she sits, the cat, a well-groomed feline with smooth black and white fur and golden eyes, jumps onto her lap.

“He’s such a curious thing, a miracle really he hasn’t died yet. Then again, maybe he did, didn’t you?” she coos and starts petting her pet. The cat purrs, its eyes settling on Bill, not looking anywhere else nor moving again.

Cayden coughs, sliding a pen and his notepad from his pocket. “Would you be so kind as to tell me your name again?”

“Maggie Allegra Cabot. The fourth Allegra in my family, Sir, and proud to be of service.”

The young Detective next to him is obviously nonplussed and made speechless by this woman. Bill has to admit: this city harbors some strange people but he’s beginning to question what is stranger – the killers he’s trying to catch or people coping with the weirdness of the world in their own complicated ways.

“Miss Cabot – is that correct?” Bill asks. 

“That’s correct,” she smiles with her southern drawl.

“Okay, Miss Cabot. Why don’t you tell us why you think your neighbor is to blame?”

In a slow drawl she starts talking, “Well, I live next to Mallory, right down the street. Now Mallory, bless her heart, truly is an unlucky woman. Practically knew her my whole life. Went to school with her and all. But the moment she met that James her life truly became miserable. Course we all knew what was going on behind closed doors. I told her to get rid of that good for nothing and find an upstanding fella, but she just wouldn’t listen. Love does make us blind it seems. Poor thing became pregnant and had a beautiful girl who she named Lola. As soon as Lola was born that, excuse my French, bastard, found another girl and eloped, leaving her to take care of little Lola all by herself. But for a few years all was dandy. Lola grew up and became a fine woman. Married a good man and had a son. Try the tea,” she takes a sip herself, and watches as the three of them do, too. It’s – not bad.

“Now. Keres was always a peculiar child and when his parents died under tragic circumstances,” she pauses her narrative once again to cross herself, “and Mallory took him in—he stopped going outside. Only left the house to go to school and the occasional grocery run for his Grandma. She has become very withdrawn since suffering from gout.” She shakes her head, patting the cat. “I think he never got over the death of his parents. Drink the tea.” She takes another sip. “He’s an adult man and still doesn’t know anything about common courtesy. And the noises coming out of that house. Diabolical. I really don’t know how Mallory can stand it.”

Her cat is continuously staring at Bill. Monroe and Cayden are looking at her as if she’s missing some marbles.

“So you think your neighbor, what was his name again?”

“Keres.”

“You think Keres did it? Because he’s behaving strangely since his parents died?”

“No, God, no, Agent. Because a spirit whispered into my ear, informing me that he’s practicing dark magic. You see, I have the third eye. Had it for a long time now. It opened when I was a young woman.”

Out of the corner of his eye he can see Monroe taking a deep breath, hears but doesn’t understand as she’s muttering something under her breath.

Trying to stay professional Bill continues his line of questioning, “Third Eye? A spirit told you he’s practicing dark magic?” 

“Dark magic, Satanism, whatever you wanna call it. Do you know what a third eye is, Agent?”

“I believe I do.”

“Then you understand I can communicate with spirits.”

“Tell me again how this spirit contacted you.”

“I didn’t tell, but you know… ‘twas more of a divine afflatus. You see, it didn’t contact me as such. The energies during my – ceremony pointed me in his direction.”

“Ceremony? What kind of ceremony?”

“Once a month, on the full moon I conduct a ceremony to communicate with my ancestors and ask for important wisdom. I burn wormwood, cedar and poppy, which helps me fall into a meditative state of mind. During this state I’m most receptive to anything my family’s spirits might want to share with me.”

“Some might say _that’s_ dark magic.”

“Those fools don’t know anything. What I practice is white magic – I wouldn’t dare! But that Keres boy, I’m telling you, he ain’t right.”

Bill looks at Cayden furiously scribbling down her statement, reassuring himself that the other man is writing it all down.

“Thank you so much Miss Cabot. You were really helpful. If there is anything else, we need from you, might we call you?”

“Yes, of course, sweetie.”

Without asking she makes a move for Cayden’s pen and notepad and scribbles down her number and full name.

“That’s all for now, ma’am. Thanks for having us.”

With a nudge, the cat jumps down from her lap. As Allegra Cabot raises, Bill mirrors her, shakes her hand and waits for the other two to do so as well. After that the three of them are escorted back outside.

She watches them from behind her lattice door as they disappear down the pathway back into the car. Inside Cayden says, “Did that really just happen?”

Taking a deep breath himself and trying to smother his laughter with a shake of his head, Bill reaches for a smoke.

“Yeah, Detective, it did. You froze like a newbie during his first traffic check.”

“Sorry, Tench but did you see her? Lord help me, and that smell. What was that?”

Angela starts laughing, “Probably the substances she takes to open her third eye.” 

Bill grants himself a moment of lightheartedness, laughing with her, before leaning back into the leather.

“Okay let’s file this conversation, forget it and move on. I’ve been thinking we should go back to the crime scene and search the area.”

Cayden and Monroe calm down and school their faces back into professionality as Bill starts talking about new directions they could go, while Cayden drives them back to the station.

Desperate for any kind of new insights and progress, coupled with a pervading feeling of dread whenever Bill regards the crime scene photos and thinks about Holden’s words, he talks to Chief Wilson in agreement with the detective.

Knocking at the door to the Chief’s office, Wilson asks him to enter and smiles good naturedly at seeing Bill’s face. He moves to shake his hand before offering the seat in front of him. As with every good shoulder rub, they talk about the unimportant things first – how Bill likes the city, the atrocious weather, Wilson’s kids and consequently Bill’s son – until the conversation flows back to the current state of the investigation. The man’s face takes on a contemplating expression as Bill talks him through his profile and what he thinks the best strategy going forward is. 

“Sir, just a few officers to comb the area. Nothing too costly.”

“If another body is buried somewhere in these woods you might not find it.”

“You’re right, Sir. But what if we do find something? Back when I was working Atlanta, we did the same thing. Wouldn’t you rather it happens now, while you have the full support of the FBI than later when we’re gone, and the builders go back to work? If you have a serial killer at large, don’t you wanna catch him?”

“A serial killer?”

“Multiple murderers.” And goes on explaining to Wilson what he’s already told Holden, what he’s been telling all kinds of people for the past few years since they started the study. 

Finished with his explanations and his groveling before an authority higher than him, Bill watches as Wilson thinks for a while, brushing his fingers over his ginger mustache over and over again until he finally agrees.

In the end they get more men than he hoped for, under one condition: They get five days of intense search. But after that, homicide will focus on more pressing issues and officially declare the case as cold. The task force is quickly formed with thirteen officers, partly from other departments, ready to comb the woods and marshes surrounding the dumping site. The very next day all of them are gathered in the conference room and briefed on the necessary information and from one moment to the next the quiet conference room is crammed with people helping out whenever they’re not bound by other pressing issues.

It is swiftly decided that they’ll work in teams, rotating through search, documentation and break. Those not searching the woods or at home taking a break are at the precinct conducting more interviews with former convicted criminals currently out on parole or done with their sentence. Just as quickly Monroe and Cayden decide that they want to be the ones to lead the search, organizing the force. Bill doesn’t mind staying at the station conducting interviews, reading through them and working the pile of missing persons. Leaning against the wall, next to a photograph of John Doe in their lab in Quantico, he watches as his two eager colleagues open a map of the area on the table, Cayden pointing out where the body was found while Monroe draws grids on it in fine pencil lines. Every square is marked with a date and the names of the officers searching these particular areas during the next five days. 

For three days everyone is hellbent on finding something, anything, to bring an end to the search. Wilson even gets a hold of canine units to help sniff out bodies. On several occasions his thoughts drift to Holden, the desire to talk to him and hear his opinion so strong, he becomes angry at himself, chastising himself mentally. 

Then, on the fourth day, two things happen at once:

Bill is at the precinct, two files of a missing young man each in front of him, pictures of them smiling, alive in printed grey, and is about to arrange meetings with the parents (finger already on the dial buttons) as the police scanner crackles to life with Angela’s voice.

“Agent Monroe reporting.” Some of the task force working at the department at the moment, doing coordination and reports and marking spots on the map they’ve already covered, stops. A collective tense energy gathers in the room as they await further information, eyes glued to the scanner. A nearby office answers. 

“Team one listening.”

“We found another body. Not skeletonized. Early stages of decomposition. Send Coroner Sharp and Agent Tench.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These chapters are getting longer and longer...haha...ha


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So excited to share this chapter. Nevertheless, a short warning: you'll find the description of a corpse in it. It's not overly graphic, but it's there, just so you know.

Bill races to the crime scene and beats Sharp to it by a long shot. On the way his thoughts drift to Holden. How had he known? Was it simply a hunch, a shot in the dark or something else? Something worse? Was he responsible for the crime after all?

Angela is waiting for him behind the police tape, right at the edge of the construction site as he arrives. Her rigid posture betrays how shocked she is. Either she’s never seen a dead body before or a body in a horrid state. 

“Bill!” she waves at him as she spots him climbing out of his rented Chevrolet and walking towards the few scattered policemen. They nod at him, noting his name in their logbook, as he lifts the tape to join his colleague and is being led into the forest.

“What’s the story?”

“We were working Area D12 when one of the dogs started yapping, already digging. Cayden and I were informed and rushed over to see Moses – don’t look like that, that’s the dog’s name. He was single mindedly digging up our UP from its shallow grave.”

“What’s it look like?”

“Like I said. Early stages of decomposition. Naked, cloth wrapped around the head.”

“Did anyone touch the body or the cloth?”

“Not to my knowledge. As soon we arrived, we told everyone to back off. Cayden said they don’t have a forensics unit at the station. I offered to call our department in Columbia to send one. This is the dog,” she says, pointing at a man feeding his German Shephard pieces of jerky, before they enter the forest with its oak trees and pines and dark-green canopy of leaves.

“Did you find anything surrounding the dumping site?”

“Not yet. We’re still searching.”

The closer they get the more voices they hear. Closely looking at the ground he’s walking on, they eventually meet a few officers searching the area, leaving them to their task and walking up to the grave. Taking a deep breath Bill walks up to the hole, kneels down at the edge and with his torchlight turned on, looks down at Body #2 emitting the strong sickly-sweet odor of decay. 

Next to him Angela says, “I bagged some of the insects and larvae.”

“Smart woman,” he answers absentmindedly and scrutinizes their victim: face wrapped in a cloth, dark hair peeking out from underneath the dirt stained material, body turned on its belly, arms stretched along the length of it, the skin still attached to the body marbled green-black and covered in all kinds of insects.

“Took photos?”

“Yes,” she looks at the sky, “Unfortunately it’s getting too dark to take your own.”

He slides a cigarette out of the pack as he stands up and takes stock of the area. Just then, Sharp is arriving, looking almost like he’s annoyed to be called here. Bill and Angela greet him. And watch as he slightly leans over the hole as if afraid of what he’s going to see, declaring, “Definitely dead.”

Clicking her tongue Monroe asks him, “Anything more? Any idea how long?”

“Well, uh,” he stammers, “I’d have to take a closer look at the lab. You know, the light and - and there are the natural conditions to think about.”

Smiling at Angela’s attempt to stay patient, he lights his cigarette, snapping his zippo shut.

“Listen, if it’s alright with you, I’d like to call down our forensics team from Columbia. They’ll also want to examine the body.”

Sharp shrugs, “No problem.”

“We’re gonna leave it until they arrive, okay?”

“Yes, Agent Monroe,” he says, getting more annoyed by the minute. 

She looks at Bill, close to rolling her eyes. He smiles around the cigarette and points into the direction of the construction site with his head. “We’ll be back in a few minutes. Do you mind waiting?”

“Got nowhere else to be.”

Putting the walkie talkie to her mouth she contacts Cayden, telling him that Bill and Sharp have arrived. Bill walks them to the edge of the forest, away from the hubbub of the early crime scene analysis. 

“What do you think, Monroe? First thoughts?”

“That it’s going to be a long night,” she sighs, tugging the knot at the back of her head free and gathering some errands strand of hair to put it back into position. “I think it’s our killer. Part of his MO is the same – the cloth, the burial.”

“I agree. Let’s hope we’ll find out how he kills. It’ll tell us something about his signature.”

“Signature?”

“His reason for killing, you know. Figuring out what gets his rocks off. What else?”

“This place must have significance for him.”

“Could be. Or he’s mocking us, showing us how much smarter he is than us. No matter which way you look at it, it’s high risk to bury a body near a known construction site turned crime scene. That’s why the grave is –”

“Shallow. He had to be fast.” She looks at the diggers, nods along as her brain strings together the pieces, “He felt compelled to return here. He had to. Just as he felt compelled to bury the body.”

“We need to tell forensics to check the first site. I won’t be surprised if they find traces of semen. He might have reexperienced his first kill while masturbating. Maybe even did it next to the second site.”

Monroe’s head whips towards Bill, eyes big as saucers. “Some really do that? Jesus, that’s fucked up. Wait – what the?”

Both of them hear the commotion before they see it: engines howling, before several cars from numerous news stations appear with squealing tires, dust whirling against the dusky sky.

“How do they always know so quickly?” she growls.

“Go back. I’ll take care of it.”

As Bill approaches the overwhelmed officers, trying to ward off the noisy reporters, with a slow gait, a few immediately realize who he belongs to and turn towards him. The butt of his cigarette is thrown away towards the gravel road. A cacophony of questions rains down on him, cameras, lights and microphones being stuck into his face. At the small of his back he can feel sweat pouring down into his pants.

He gives the typical answers – that nothing can be said about the current state of the investigation but yes they found a body and no they don’t know yet if the two murders are connected, that the possibility exists and that Chief Wilson will inform the media about further developments as soon as possible. He feels bad assuming Wilson will give a statement and basically pushing him into it, but experience has told him that it has to happen this way and that the Chief will talk to them anyway. Least of all to uphold the image of a capable police force. Having the choice taken away from him might anger Wilson and raise the probability for an uncomfortable scolding. Be that as it may, better this way than one of the officers saying the entirely wrong thing. 

Leaving the screaming horde behind he tells the two officers to keep them in check. No need for some sensationalist enthusiast to see something they are not supposed to see or contaminate the crime scene.

He should’ve known. He should’ve known that the moment the thought crosses his mind, this exact scenario would happen. Walking back towards the scene he spots someone already hanging about at the edge of the forest, someone who apparently has managed to find a stealthy way to sneak past police and press. And there’s only one bothersome person coming to Bill’s mind who is able to pull something like this off.

Anger propelling him forward, he storms towards the figure whose back is facing him as he strides closer but who turns around as they hear him. It’s Holden - who fucking else - standing his ground as Bill gets so far into his space, their noses are almost touching until Holden takes a step back and straightens that steely spine of his, even backed against a tree as he is. 

“What are you doing here? No, you know what, forget that question. What I want to know is how? How did you know about the body? Who the fuck are you?”

Holden’s eyes narrow, visibly upset at being spoken to in such a harsh way. “I didn’t _know_ about the body, Bill. I gave you a piece of advice.”

“And I’m supposed to believe that?”

“What are you angry about? I’m innocent, you said so yourself.”

“Maybe I should revise my profile. Maybe you’re the sick bastard’s fucking accomplice. How do you lure them in, huh? Is it always the same tactic? Using that pretty face, showing interest in them, dusted with some naivety to make them feel protective?”

“Bill.” The tension between them is heating up like the air surrounding them. Holden’s hands are balled into fists. When he speaks, anger and desperation tint his voice, show on his face, “Listen to me, I’m telling you it’s not me. I don’t have any reason to do this. I didn’t kill those people. I – fuck! I’m –”

“Bill?” Angela’s voice calls from between the trees, close to their location. Her timing couldn’t be worse.

Holden gazes into his eyes, searching for confirmation, for trust. Finding what he’s looking for he turns to leave into the other direction underneath the cover of evening that has arrived now that the sun is gone.

“This conversation isn’t over. Tell me how I can contact you.”

“No need, I’ll find you.”

“Goddamnit, wait –” he calls out.

Too late.

“Who are you talking to?”

Closing his eyes and clenching his teeth to find his composure, Bill turns around to face a stricken looking Monroe.

“No one. Some reporter tried to sneak around.”

She nods but the confused look on her face doesn’t vanish. “You need to come and hear this. Sharp has something useful to say for once.”

One last time Bill turns his head around as he follows Monroe back to the crime scene, but in the darkness he’s unable to see where Holden has disappeared to.

Monroe phones SAC Houser that same night. After their short talk with Sharp, she excuses herself to drive back to the station and make the phone call. Just as she is about to leave, Bill and she can see Captain Reynolds and Chief Wilson already talking to a bunch of reporters from afar, curtly, before moving on towards Bill and Angela with stern faces and the screaming crowd in the background.

All of them meet in the middle, close to the first dumping site to talk about the latest developments, aware of the fact cameras are pointed at them from a distance.

Like he predicted, Wilson isn’t happy to see him, has his hands resting on his hips, “I’d appreciate it if the decision to give a statement isn’t taken out of my hands, Agent Tench.”

“I’m sorry, sir. They turned up and demanded answers. I found it best to not make it look like the FBI was taking over the case.”

Sighing and rubbing his fingers into his tear ducts he says, “You make it really hard for me to be mad at you. Alright. What have we got?”

While Bill begins to update Wilson and Reynolds, Monroe takes her leave.

Four hours later, and well into the night, a forensic team arrives at the scene and has to fight their way through the gathered news vehicles. By now every officer, including Detective Cayden, and agent, is exhausted – with the exception for Wilson and Reynolds. The adrenaline has faded, leaving them lightheaded, extremities feeling like leaden weights trying to drag them to an early grave as well.

The team consisting of five scientists, one of them an older man, brisk and straightforward, and his four younger colleagues trotting behind him like soldiers, arrive with three big trunks and begin instructing the task force milling around while they don their suits, gloves, goggles and masks. Suited up, they inspect the corpse first. 

Meanwhile Angela and Bill are being pulled into a conversation by Dr. Leigh, scientist in charge of the team, giving him a quick overview of the case and suggestions as to what they should look at, which he notes down on a pad.

“Don’t get your hopes up. The way I see it it’s been several weeks since your unsub deposited the remains here. We’re going to try our best to extract some useful evidence but if he was careful the first time around, well, you know how it is sometimes. We’re lucky he buried the body, though. Would’ve been worse if it had been subjected to weather and animals.”

He stops speaking to watch as the exhumed body is carried away on a stretcher at long last, safely wrapped in a black bag. Angela and Bill follow his gaze until Sharp and his assistant are out of sight.

“Our medical examiner is arriving later today. Hopefully. Latest could be tomorrow. They have a lot on their plate right now.” Leigh shakes his head and waves to his colleagues to join him, “For now, we should check _both_ crime scenes is what you’re telling me, correct? I’ll update you on anything we might find.” 

Bill nods, “Take your time but you know, don’t take too long. We’re working in teams, if you need any uniforms to help you…”

“That’ll be great. These poor bastards look like they need some sleep. Send them home and get me the other team. Just a couple of officers should be enough, someone who can take some decent photographs, to keep the mob at bay, that kind of stuff. We don’t want to contaminate the scene even further.”

“Got it. Thanks, Doc.”

“Sure thing. And get some sleep yourselves, you look like you’re going to get bowled over any minute. Put those insects in there when you leave,” he points to one of the trunks nearby. “Now - I won’t shake your hand,” he wiggles his gloved fingers instead and turns to leave. “Talk to you later.” 

Sleep seems far away as the two of them step out of the forest and onto the construction site just to see more reporters arriving, eager to know what is going on. And as if the reporters weren’t enough, Bill spots Allegra Cabot and Father Benjamin at the outskirts of the crowd.

Bill curses.

Seeing the ever-growing commotion, they both sigh and steel themselves to fight their way through to their cars and towards the two known entities watching the spectacle from a safe distance.

“You get Father Benjamin, escort him back to the church or wherever the hell he lives and try to find out what he wants. I’ll take care of our wicked witch from the west,” Bill says. 

Ignoring the press, they walk towards Cabot and Father Benjamin while question after question is lost in the cacophony of voices.

“Get in the car!” Bill screams at Miss Cabot while Angela instructs Father Benjamin at the other side of the crowd. The old lady does as told, clutching a bag to her side as she takes the passenger seat and he fights to open the driver’s seat .Inside the car the voices are slightly muffled, yet still persistent in their pursuit.

Bill turns to Cabot, “Did you walk here?”

“I did, Agent Tench. Healthier for the body.”

“Alright. I’m driving you home. What’s in the bag?” Bill asks as he carefully maneuvers the car through the hungry sharks swimming around his metal vessel.

“My cat.”

“Your cat?”

“He gets lonely without me.”

Bill shakes his head in disbelief, muttering “Jesus Christ” under his breath.

Fed up with the unyieldingness of the crowd in front of him, he hoots the car’s horn, once, twice, until the path is cleared, and he can steer the car onto the road towards Cabot’s house.

“Care to share what you were doing at the crime scene?”

While he waits for an answer, a cigarette is lit left-handed. 

“I was curious, that’s all. Seeing the scene of the crime will make it easier for me to convey information when I’m talking to my ancestors. Did _you_ talk to Keres?”

“I’m not allowed to talk about an on-going investigation, Miss Cabot.”

Her cat moves inside the bag to fight its way out of its confinements until it manages to poke its head out, ears waggling. Bill throws a glance at the pet, which is once again staring at him with big golden eyes and thin black slits.

“You should, is all I’m saying. That’s their house by the way, that one, waaay down there in the back.”

Carefully, curiously Bill takes his foot from the gas and follows Cabot’s finger pointing out the passenger seat’s window as they pass the mouth of a rundown driveway. The dilapidated house _is_ set back a good distance from the road, obscured by several trees surrounding the estate. Slowly it disappears as they drive past, until it finally vanishes in the rearview window and Allegra Cabot’s house appears.

“Miss Cabot,” Bill starts as he stops the car in front of her house, “I’m asking you nicely to let us do our work. Please stay away from the crime scene. And for God’s sake don’t talk to any reporters when they turn up.” 

On his way back into the city, the telltale signs of tiredness catch up to him. The only problem is that his head is whirring with this new discovery, promising him that he’ll be unable to fall asleep. With that in mind, Bill drives to the police station without a detour, hoping to pick up where he left off a few hours prior to the finding of the second body. By now the sun is fully risen, the bright yellow light hurting his tired eyes.

The conference room is nearly deserted and the few officers working throw him strange looks as he enters, heading for the freshly brewed coffee in the corner of the room. The dark familiar smell of roasted coffee beans reaching his nostrils soothes his jittery mind, but not as much as the first glorious sip.

Slightly energized he sits down at his desk and takes a minute to organize himself before thinking that he might as well turn on the TV to see what the news is reporting. He gets the remote, turns on the TV, zaps through the channels to find one of the handful of news channels, stops and turns up the volume. A dark-haired woman in red lipstick, complemented by her red costume, and standing in front of the construction site guarded by officers and yellow tape, is speaking into the camera. 

“Police in Charleston made a grisly discovery yesterday afternoon. The body of what as of now is an unidentified person, said to be female, was found near the construction site in Mount Pleasant. It follows the discovery of another body, already skeletonized, in the same location nearly four weeks ago.

Police have been working with the FBI to identify the body in the hopes of finding the suspect responsible for the crime. In an earlier statement given by Chief of Police Rud Wilson, he said that the help of the FBI was requested to make sure no satanic cult involvement was the cause.

It appears that although the FBI’s was called in, Police Chief Wilson has also turned to more unconventional methods. Shortly after two agents left the scene, a woman claiming to be psychic offered her help.”

If Bill weren’t so fucking tired, his blood would boil in anger. If Bill weren’t so fucking tired, he’d scream at Wilson’s stupidity. Instead he watches, defeated, annoyed as images are shown depicting a stocky woman with elaborated coiffured hair talking to Wilson and being led around the first crime scene. Bill can only hope that they were prevented from entering the second one by their forensic team.

On TV the picture cuts back to the ‘psychic’ being interviewed by the news anchor. _Oh my fucking God_ , Bill thinks.

“I’ve been doing this for a long time,” she says in her southern drawl, “and I’ve never been wrong. If you ask me, Chief Wilson should’ve called me sooner. I work more efficiently if I’m given the opportunity to see the body, touch it, you know. A place can only hold so many memories of a crime, but the soul? Such violence is impregnated on it. It wants to reach out. It wants to talk to someone.”

“And what can you say about this crime? Were you able to contact the souls of these poor people and listen to what they have to say?”

“Chief Wilson, bless his heart, allowed me to assess the first scene of the crime and although it’s been so long, I could feel a presence reaching out to me. I heard a woman screaming, begging for her life. Sadly, I wasn’t allowed to the second, more recent crime scene. What I can tell you, Linda, is that shivers that run down my spine being in this place. Something bad happened here. Something very very bad.” 

Bill turns off the TV, takes a few seconds to close his smarting eyes and rub his aching head. They have been lucky to work without big media coverage so far. But the fact that a second murder was committed is something the press can’t ignore. Won’t. And now so can’t the good people of Charleston. He hopes Wilson doesn’t seriously believe her, doesn’t honestly consider asking for her help. 

Putting the remote control down more forcefully than necessary he goes back to his desk to go back to work for real this time, ignoring the worried stares from the other officers. He looks at the files, the two missing men. Right – he wanted to talk to the families of Jacob Fletcher and Arnold Pearce.

Bill takes a sip of his cold coffee and picks up the phone from his cradle to call the Fletcher family first, hoping to talk to them while the crime scene is still investigated and the rest of them wait for the medical examiner to arrive and do the autopsy on their victim number two.

The Fletchers come as soon as they can. With both of them working full-time jobs it’s early noon when they walk through the doors of the precinct and sit opposite him at his desk.

Bill hasn’t slept in over 24 hours. The only things keeping him on his feet are nicotine and coffee and a too-active brain. He wishes he could talk to Holden and clean up this tangled mess between them, to finally understand what his part in all of this is, desperate to believe him, be assured of his innocence. But it’s not Holden sitting in front of him.

Margharet – or Maggie – Fletcher carries visible signs of her loss – she appears even more tired than Bill in all her pallor; skinny, not because it’s fashionable. She’s obviously not eating well or suffers from an eating disorder and exudes the energy of someone who’s exhausted to the bone. Her husband, Gabriel, seems almost indifferent next to her. Bill knows it’s just another sign of grief.

“I sincerely apologize for putting you through this again. I’m sure you already had to talk to plenty of law enforcement. ”

“Not as much as we’d liked,” Maggie Fletcher says so gently it’s almost a whisper.

Her statement sneaks past his usual defenses, weakened by his tired state, and the urge to comfort her is so strong he has to physically restrain himself. He can’t imagine what he’d do if someone were to kidnap Brian and hurt him.

“Do you think one of the bodies you found might be our son?”

Bill takes a deep breath, “We don’t know, we’re trying to make sure all eventualities are explored. Do you mind if I smoke? No? Thank you.” He lights a cigarette. “You want one?” Both shake their heads.

“Tell me about the day your son disappeared – April 24th 1973. How did you know something wasn’t right?”

Maggie and Gabriel Fletcher look at each other, then Maggie swallows and speaks, “It was the weekend and Jacob, he, uhm, he usually came home for the weekend. Whenever his workload at the University allowed it, he would come home.”

“University of South Carolina in Columbia, right?”

“Yes. He wanted to stay within reach of our family. Back then he was close to my father and… he had been diagnosed with terminal cancer. My father that is. Jake wanted to spend as much time as possible with him. The weekend of his disappearance he was out with friends. A couple of them attended the local college. We didn’t think any of it, at age 20 he was nearly an adult. The night he disappeared, he said goodbye, met his friends and. Didn’t come back home.”

With slightly shaking hands, she reaches for the glass of water in front of her. Her husband continues the story. “It was normal for them to sleep at each other’s places. When he didn’t turn up for breakfast, I knocked on his door, but the room was empty. We didn’t think any of it. However, the later it got the more we started to worry. We began calling his friends – they all said the same, Jacob didn’t sleep at their house and that they had parted ways the night before. We’d driven him into the city and he told us a friend would take him back home. But he didn’t come back. I know Jake was no angel. When we finally called police and Jacob was declared missing, his friends confirmed that they’d been drinking the night of his disappearance.”

Now Bill begins to see the hurt in Gabriel Fletcher’s eyes, the disappointment. “We did everything to find him, flyers, radio, local newspapers. He had simply vanished. After a while people stopped caring, and worst of all the police stopped caring. They thought either Jake had fallen into the ocean in a drunken stupor or had run away from home.”

Maggie takes her husband's hand and squeezes it, swallowing her tears with a brave face.

“Everyone says their son wouldn’t do something like this. But Jake – he had no reason to. Tell me Agent Tench, why would my beautiful, kind-hearted boy decide to study close to his dying grandfather only to run away?”

“So your father had still been alive at this point?” Bill asks, taking some notes.

“Barely. Though, he was a fighter. When he heard that Jake went missing, he fought for another year before the cancer won and took him. It was horrible to see him losing hope.” 

“Did Jacob behave any differently? Did he say or do anything he normally wouldn’t say or do? Or did he have a history of mental illness?”

Maggie shakes her head. “No. His grandfather’s imminent death preoccupied him. I remember him saying that his grades had gotten worse because he kept thinking about it. Other than that, he was perfectly fine. They really loved each other. I was an only child. I think for my father Jake was like the son he never had, spoiled him rotten,” she chuckles, “my husband is right. He was no angel, I mean we had our fights and he got into trouble occasionally but nothing out of the ordinary.”

“No juvenile delinquencies?”

This time Gabriel Fletcher answers, “No. None.”

“What about a girlfriend?”

“Nothing serious. Police questioned his roommate and friends from university; he didn’t elope if that’s what you think.”

“Prior to Jake’s disappearance, did you notice any foreign cars around the neighborhood? Or foreign men?”

“No, and neither have any of the neighbors.” 

“One last question: did your son break his clavicle and ribs as a child?” 

A quiet hope is gently poking his chest. If the answer is yes, they might be closer to their mystery victim number one.

Maggie opens her mouth, “Uhm, no.”

Just like that the hope is gone, nipped in the bud.

After he writes down the friend’s names, takes the family to the exit, thanking them once again for coming, assuring them that he’ll keep them updated if the case reveals that their son is somehow entangled in this, and returns to his seat, a note is waiting for him. On it is a name and a telephone number to call. Curious as to what this caller wants, he picks up the phone and dials the number belonging to the New York region.

The conversation doesn’t last long but it intrigues him enough that he calls the airport next and arranges for the next flight up to Rochester – at ten a.m. the next morning. After he hangs up, he contemplates calling the second family. However, the decision is taken out of his hands as Angela arrives at the station, walks through the doors of the conference room and looks at him with knitted brows.

“Bill? You’re already here?”

“Never left.”

Her confusion turns to shock as she steps closer and examines him closely. “Not to be disrespectful, but you should get some sleep.”

Bill sighs and rubs his aching eyes, for the hundredth time on this long long day. “You’re right. Listen, I talked to the Fletchers. Here are my notes. It’s not their son. Would you mind talking to the Pearce Family?”

Taking the pad from him and scanning his notes, she nods, “Eh, yeah, sure.”

“Shortly after the Fletchers’ left and you arrived, I had an interesting phone call with a woman in Rochester – “

“Rochester?”

“Who saw the news coverage and claims her son might be involved in this. It’s a long shot –”

“Very long.”

“Monroe, listen.”

“Yes, sorry.”

“It’s a long shot but I’m flying out tomorrow morning to talk to her. You talk to the Pearces, make sure the medical examiner is briefed and call me if there’s a breakthrough from our forensics’ team.”

Yawning, he takes his briefcase and his pack of cigarettes.

“Oh – what did Father Benjamin want?”

She shakes her head, lips pursed, “Take a guess.”

“Consecrate the body?”

“Bingo. I politely told him to fuck off.”

“Did we check if he owns a car?”

“He doesn’t. Took a cab all the way out to Mount Pleasant. Doesn’t mean anything, if you ask me. I’ll have surveillance set up again.”

“You know what? I think it’s time we invite him. As soon as I’m back, that fucker has some explaining to do.”

Bill pushes the door open.

“What about Cabot?” Angela yells before he can leave. “Her too?”

“She’s harmless,” Bill responds, thinking for a second, “but put her up on the board anyway. Who knows what’s really going on here. Did you watch the news yet?”

Angela shakes her head.

“You should.”

Finally, Monroe sees him off as he slouches out of the precinct.

*

On his flight to New York, while nursing a coffee and staring out the small round window to watch the clouds pass by, Bill recalls his last conversation with Holden.

_“Are you leaving again?” The question is accompanied by an image of Holden sitting next to him at the pool, no jacket, white shirt sleeves rolled up. Casual in his appearance. Not casual enough next to Bill in his swimming trunks, but just so that Bill wondered how Holden would look with crystalline pearls running down his torso_.

“ _Bill?” Bill could feel blood rising to his cheeks, embarrassment flooding his body with sudden heat. He hoped he’d be able to hide it as the real heat getting to him. And luckily, no one else was with them to see him staring._

Bill presses his eyes close, rubs a gentle finger over them. No, this can’t be right. The last time – the last time he spoke to Holden was at the crime scene, wasn’t it? Did he really talk to him about leaving for New York?

The two memories overlap, his mind trying to make sense of the discrepancy. He didn’t drink the night before. Did he dream the other conversation?

_“Yes. Someone came forward. She said that her son went missing while on vacation in Myrtle Beach six years ago and that his disappearance was unusual. Might be a waste of time, but we’re tracking down every lead.”_

_Holden’s sun-kissed arms, dotted with freckles, lay on his thighs, hands entangled, pointer tipping against his knuckles._

_“That’s another county. Could be problematic.”_

_“I’m FBI, I’ll manage.”_

_“So why unusual?”_

_“Reason I’m leaving. I want to talk to her in person.”_

_“What about the body?”_

_“Our forensic team is going to do the autopsy. We’re hoping she’ll be identified sooner than John Doe.”_

_“That’s good.” His head turned away. Bill’s eyes zeroed in on the mole on his jaw. That goddamn mole…_

_“That’s good,” he repeated._

He can’t make sense of the memory, and stops trying as the plane descends in Rochester. Walking out of the airport, then straight to the car rental, there’s no time to further contemplate it. And it really doesn’t matter, he decides, postponing the thought to another time. 

When he arrives at the nice suburban home with its mowed lawn, reminding him of the one he and Nancy had, where their witness lives, and knocks and sees the elderly woman opening the door, he does something extremely unprofessional. He squints at her, tongue twisted as if he’s forgotten its function.

“Yes? How can I help?”

Hearing her speak, eyebrows knitted in confusion, Bill forgets his momentary hesitation.

“Yes, sorry. Special Agent Tench, we talked on the phone?”

“Oh yes, please come on in.” As he steps across the threshold and waits for her to close the door, he scrutinizes her again, her eyes, her features. He can’t shake the sense that –

“I’m sorry. But have we met before?”

She smiles and shakes her head, “I don’t think so. Please, follow me. Would you like some coffee?” She leads him through the tidy hallway, everything neatly arranged in its place and into the spacious kitchen, where she indicates for him to sit at the table. Compared to the Fletchers she looks almost normal, composed, like a part of her has already accepted that she’ll never see her child again. “That’d be nice. Is your husband at home?”

“No, sorry, he’s working.”

Somewhere in the house a grandfather clock is loudly announcing the time as four o’clock. And soon the smell of coffee wafts through the kitchen – one cup is put in front of him, steam rising to warm his face.

“Thank you.”

“You're very welcome.”

Taking a large sip, Bill compliments her and slides his notepad and pen out of his pocket.

“Alright. You called because you’ve seen the news coverage of the bodies found in Charleston, right?”

“Yes. Ever since – his disappearance we’ve been carefully keeping track of the national news and keeping an eye out in various newspapers.”

“And you said your son disappeared while on holiday?”

“Yes. He always was a peculiar child. But nice. Always helpful,” her hand grabs the cross around her necklace, rubbing it, “We raised him to be a good catholic. Raised him to live by the ten commandments. We were so happy when he started college and found like minded people. We didn’t think – I mean who thinks their child will be abducted? Who abducts a grown man in a populated holiday region?”

_Plenty of people_ , Bill thinks. Plenty of assholes don’t mind abducting grown men and women and killing them for fun, to feel powerful, to fill a void inside of them. He doesn’t say any of it, least of all that her assumption might be true.

“No problems with the law? No secrets he might have kept from you?” He doesn’t want to spell out what he’s hinting at with her obviously being a devout catholic. 

“Never. No secrets. We never gave him a reason to hide something from us. Or from God.” Except that kids always have something to hide. 

“Then what? Who reported him as missing? His friends? Or did they call you first?”

“ _They_ called the police. It’s been a while but, ehm, I think they’d been bar hopping and were heavily drunk by the end of the night. Two of them can’t remember anything. The third one remembers seeing Holden –”

A sudden, great feeling of panic and disbelief and distress has his stomach dropping, his heart racing as if someone just pushed him to board the world’s highest roller coaster without his consent. He can actually hear the rushing of his blood in his ears.

“Agent Tench?”

“Can you repeat that? I mean, what’s your son’s name?”

“Holden. His name is Holden,” Susan Ford says, visibly stupefied and confused. “Didn’t I say? I thought you knew. I heard the FBI has a large database for missing persons from all over the country.”

Whatever she sees on his face is enough to prompt her to say, “Wait, I’ll get a picture.” 

She isn’t gone long enough for him to get his body back under control or think about the consequence of having acted in such a huge unprofessional manner. She’s right, he should’ve come better prepared.

“This is the last photo taken of him. Him and his friends during their vacation at Myrtle Beach.”

With trembling hands, he studies the picture in his hands, his eyes drawn to the only person he recognizes. His world narrows down to the piece of paper in his hands. Mrs. Ford is talking, her voice reaching him like the crashing of waves over his head, like he’s trapped underwater.

Flooded by unadulterated horror, his first instinct is dedicated to shame and anger, to think that he’s told a psychopath intimate details of his life, that he opened the door for him to be part of the investigation. Holding onto the photo, staring at Holden Ford laughing, the thought is slowly rejected and replaced by a far greater horror.

Holden in 1985 hasn’t aged a day since 1979… 

_…a young Caucasian man between 18 and 35…_

The Holden he’s met is sober and serious. Spectral…

… _you wouldn’t believe me_ … 

“Did H – did your son have an old rib injury?” Bill presses past his knotted throat, surprised he’s able to form words at all.

Mrs. Ford bites her lip and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Actually, now that you mention it. Yes, I – there was an incident in his childhood. He came home one afternoon and complained about a pain in his chest and shoulder. I drove him to the doctor, and he had an x-ray. He didn’t tell the truth, said it was an accident, I can’t remember what, but I knew my son, I knew what had happened. Someone must have hurt him, badly, because his clavicle and some of his ribs were broken.”

“What about –” Bill stops, gut turning as if he drank spoiled milk. He breathes heavily through his nose, alarming Susan to his state. She leans forward, her brows pinched in concern.

“Agent Tench? Is everything alright?” She touches his clammy hand. “Do you need anything? Some cold water?”

Bill shakes his head, swallows. “I’m sorry. Must have eaten something bad. Do you still know your son’s dentist by any chance?”

Susan nods slowly, extracting her hand and nervously playing with her ring. “I do.”

“Could you please write down his contact details?”

She turns the ring around her finger faster and faster. She’s not a stupid woman. She’s realizing.

“Why do you need to talk to my son’s dentist, Agent Tench?” she asks, concern replaced with fear.

… _once you have a possible victim_ …

“His teeth were perfect,” he whispers, a spreading numbness taking hold.

She physically recoils from him at the statement, her eyes wide open, hazy with unshed tears. “What did you just say?”

“Shit – Mrs. Ford, I didn’t mean to scare you. There’s reason to believe –” _You wouldn’t believe me – Keep it together_ “I’m so sorry but I think your instincts were right. I think we found your son.” 

**.**

**.**

He doesn’t know how he manages his way to his booked hotel. He just knows that he arrives. Somehow. And that he sits on the bed, head in his hands for a very long time. Every interaction with Holden is playing on repeat. Every detail about the other man – his appearance, the words he said, his fleeting nature. 

It doesn’t make sense. How can it make sense? The only sensible answer is this –

Is that –

It can’t be.

“You son of a bitch,” Bill curses between his fingers. Desperation to hate to frustration and hate again. Directed at himself. “You stupid – think. What is it that I’m not seeing?”

Suddenly there’s a shift in the air, his senses going berserk at the feeling of someone watching him. His heart jumps. Somehow, he’s surprised it’s still working, that it hasn’t stopped out of sheer terror.

Outside it’s gotten dark. He’s been sitting here for so long, the sun has set, enveloping the room in black. Bill’s gaze sweeps through it, out the window where streetlamps glitter like little will-o wisps, and to –

A shape sitting in a chair next to the drapes.

His hand reaches for his gun.

“That won’t work on me. But you already know that, or so I hope.”

“What the fuck!” The question is more of an angry shout as the shape moves from the chair and into the shadows to reveal itself as Holden.

“How did you get in here?” he barks, hands hovering over his gun.

“Don’t play dumb, Bill. Thank you by the way. For talking to her. It was very helpful. I couldn’t remember anything from my past, you know? Can you imagine how horrible that is? But seeing her made me remember. Not all of it and – ”

And he just won’t shut up about his mother while Bill is having what feels like a heart attack, an iron fist gripping his lungs and heart, squeezing air and blood out of him.

“What the hell is going on?” Bill wants to scream but it comes out more wheezingly than anything else. Then his legs give out underneath him and his ass hits the mattress, his breathing so out of his control black spots dance across his vision. The feeling reminds him of war. Cautiously he lowers his head between his knees, squeezing his eyes shut. 

“Bill? Shit. I’m sorry, please calm down.” To his right the mattress dips as another body joins him.

“This is it. I’m either going crazy or I’m still drunk; there’s no other explanation for imagining someone who’s probably dead, who _doesn’t_ exist anymore” Bill mumbles, rambling, unaware that he’s thinking aloud until Holden answers angrily,   
  
“Will you shut up and listen. I _do_ exist. You’re not imagining me,” he stops and continues more gently, “And I need your help.”

For a very long time Bill merely sits in the darkness, breathing in and out, ignoring the presence next to him.

Painstakingly slow he rises from the bed, aware of his condition, discarding his jacket and sliding his pack of cigarettes and lighter from his breast pocket. The flame casts the room in dim light for a second, revealing the vulnerable expression on Holden’s face before darkness claims it again.

“Okay,” he croaks, nicotine coating the inside of his mouth, and coughs, “Let’s pretend I’m not losing my mind and that you’re - that you’re --,” he can’t bring himself to finish the sentence, somehow still clinging to the conviction that he’s drunk, dreaming or delusional. “I’m listening. What is going on?” With narrowed eyes and a pounding heart he watches as Holden rises, too, to stand a scant few inches from him.

“You already know what’s going on, Bill. I’ve been telling you from the very beginning. Since the first time you set eyes on me. Talked to me. I was there, every step of the way.”

He thinks about Holden leaning against the red brick wall of the police department.

He looks into Holden’s blue imploring eyes. And thinks about the excavated body - - _We’re going to find out who you are. One way or another._ “No. No fucking way,” he says, shaking his head.

“You were the first to talk to me. You acknowledged me. I’ve been trying for years until you came along. Don’t turn around, look at me. I need you to find whoever killed me because _I_ can’t. I couldn’t remember my own damn name until you asked me; my family until you talked to them.”

“Why?” he asks, his cigarette burning, forgotten between his shaking fingers. Holden contemplates his question then sighs (does he need to sigh in this state?).

“I don’t know. I don’t know why – I’m stuck here like this. I don’t know why you were able to see me.”

“I didn’t see you. I saw a fucking skeleton.”

“Sensed me then. Who cares? Tomatoes, tomatoes. I’m here and I can’t leave until my bones or my soul or whatever the fuck this is, is given some peace. So. I’m not going anywhere until you find the piece of shit that killed me.”

The desire to ask _what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck_ on repeat is strong but the conversation has moved on into unknown waters and if Bill allows Holden the benefit of the doubt then there are a dozen other questions that need to be answered. The cigarette in his hand is burned down, the smell of nicotine filling the air instead of his mouth. He walks to the ashtray to discard it, then turns on the light. Whatever he expected – Holden turning translucent, or perhaps him even shying away like a vampire – doesn’t happen. He doesn’t move, pinning Bill to the spot like a collector with a simple imploring stare. 

“All this time – you’ve been following me?”

Subtly Holden bites his lips. “In a way.” It’s a half-truth. There’s something else but Bill is too overwhelmed by the situation to go down that rabbit hole.

“Were you the one to contact that Cabot woman?”

“No. She’s either crazy or really believes that she’s talking to her dead ancestors. I had nothing to do with it. I told you – the only person I can talk to is you. You’re the only one who can see me.”

Again – every interaction, every conversation, with Holden plays in his head like a videotape on TV fast forwarded and on repeat. Yet some of them feel –

“Have you been talking to me in my dreams?” Bill whispers.

Holden replies in the same tone of voice, “Sometimes. It’s – _easier_.”

Bill doesn’t know how to feel about that. Like it was a violation of his privacy? Like he shouldn’t believe the bullshit spouted by the man opposite from him? Like this whole damn mess feels like a dream – a nightmare? 

The physical feeling of a knife being pushed into his guts intensifies as each new revelation brings forward more questions.

“The photograph – that apparition, is that you? Have you been trying to stir me to the second body?”

Holden shakes his head.

“That isn’t me. It must be her. I saw the photo, same as you, and drew my own conclusions.”

“Oh God.”

Still feeling like his knees are pudding, Bill sinks down onto the bed, his head falling into his hands, supporting it and rubbing soothing circles into his forehead, his temples, hoping that it’ll help to keep his sanity. 

Looking up at Holden, he asks, “Is she here right now?” Holden shakes his head again and buries his hands in his pockets. “What’s our next step?”

“ _Our_ next step?”

“Of course ours. I have every right to be involved in this – this is about my own fucking murder. I will help you, no matter what. Haven’t I proved to you that I’m more than capable?”

A humorless chuckle leaves Bill’s mouth as he regards Holden in this new light, unmovable and determined in his quest like a dog with a bone. 

“Talk about dead men telling no tales.” Holden doesn’t laugh. “I’m not entirely convinced you’re not some figment of my imagination, but…” _whatever you are, you’re not leaving that’s for sure._

He meets Holden’s glare. “Partners, hm?”

At this, a small smile grazes Holden’s lips as he slowly sits next to Bill, confirming, “Partners.” 

They stay like this for a while: sitting next to each other silently, taking each other in until Bill moves to get his notepad and asks Holden to tell him everything he remembers about himself. 


	5. Chapter 5

There’s a piece of paper and a pen in front of him and Holden on his mind. He scans through his scarce notes, memories of a dead man. The row is empty. The next occupied seat is on the other side of the aisle where a young woman is sleeping with her head leaning against the cold cabin wall. Carefully he glances around to make sure no one is watching him.

“Holden?” he whispers, waiting for – he actually doesn’t know what he’s waiting for. Seeing the other man emerge into the seat next to him out of thin air is a baffling sight.

“Yes? What is it, Bill?”

“Holy –” he mumbles bewildered and stops himself. Instead he clicks his pen open, his hand hovering above the pristine sheet, waiting to be ink stained.

Holden looks at him, the promise of answers clearly written on his face.

\- _Why didn’t you outright tell me?_ Bill writes down.

“What did you expect me to say? ‘Hi, my name is Holden Ford and I’m here to investigate my own murder.’ You would have never believed me. I had to make sure you’d see the truth on your terms.”

\- _Fair enough._

Bill stops.

\- _Are you sure you don’t remember anything from the crime?_

“No. Nothing.”

\- _Did you go voluntarily_ he stops, scratches out the voluntarily _Did you go with a potential sexual partner after you left your friends to go back to the hotel that evening?_

“Maybe? I mean it’s a possibility. I was a young college student away from home and the influence of my religious upbringing. Who knows what I got up to?”

\- _You know. Or should know._

“Who can claim they truly know themselves? I already said I can’t remember. If you wanna know if I was gay – the answer is I don’t know. I wouldn’t eliminate it.” 

As the stewardess passes him by, he waves her down for two fingers of whiskey he’s desperately craving. Holden levels him with an unimpressed stare as the young blonde leaves to get Bill’s order.

“You should cut down on the alcohol. Do you have any idea what this amount of consumption does for your body?”

Bill answers in angry scribbles.

\- _NOT gonna be lectured by a fucking ghost_

“I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t stress the fact perpetually,” he pouts, blinking against the sun peeking through the clouds.

Bill scrutinizes his profile. Here he is, an unbelievable opportunity at his hands – talking to a victim firsthand– but it brings him no closer to the truth. In fact, it makes him question everything they’ve gathered on the case so far and at the same time wonder where it all went wrong, for Holden and him. Why did Holden turn into a ghost? Why is he able to see him?

Lost in thought he startles as his whiskey arrives. He thanks the smiling woman, then looks at the brown liquid, then at Holden’s face.

\- _Do you have_ _any_ _idea how this happened?_

“I told you, the last thing I remember is waking up in that godforsaken place. There was nothing and no one and I couldn’t leave until they dug me up. You should pick up some books about the occult or mythology, if you want to know what I think. Or consult someone who has knowledge about that stuff.”

_\- You mean like that psychic?_ _The one that said she’d heard a screaming woman?_ The question is accompanied by a raised eyebrow and pursed lips.

“Very funny. She was wrong about that part, but she wasn’t completely wrong, was she? Would it really be so hard for you to listen to what she has to say? Don’t you think it’s time to unlearn some prejudices?” 

Bill sighs and shakes his head. Holden has a point, he reckons. He did so for him after all. Still, old habits die hard. 

“Bill,” Holden catches his attention, “Keeping this form is taxing, I need a break.”

As he writes down his answer, telling Holden that it’s no problem, he wonders what Holden means by form. Where does he go when he’s not visible to Bill? Is he still with him but invisible? Does he disappear to some in-between realm? As Holden slowly fades, leaving his seat unoccupied and Bill feels an oncoming headache, he fights it by nipping at his whiskey. 

Back in his hotel room in Charleston he drops his luggage and leaves to find the local library after the concierge is nice enough to give him the directions, written down in neat handwriting. He follows it until he spots the well-kept white building and steps into the silent halls. Inside he spends more time browsing the section about the occult and myths than he has ever in his life and is frankly comfortable with. He sincerely hopes that no one recognizes him to spread the rumor that an FBI agent is sniffing around such books. 

No one seems to care until the librarian asks him for his membership card.

“Is there any way I can borrow them without? I could leave my address or –”

“I’m sorry, I’m afraid that’s not possible. I’ll have to register you.”

“Listen, ma’am. I understand but can you make an exception?” he flashes his FBI batch, “I’m not from around here.”

Understanding crosses her face. “Oh, you’re investigating the case, aren't you?” She takes a peek at the books. “In the news they said you thought it’s unlikely something to do with Satanism.”

“You’re right and I can’t talk to you about the investigation. Please, is there any way we can work this out?”

Her small button nose wiggles as she thinks his request through and says, mollified, “Well, if it helps solving a murder, I guess we can figure something out.”

“Thank you,” Bill exhales. 

Ten minutes later he leaves the building with a sigh and an armload of books. Holden still hasn’t appeared. And he doesn’t for the rest of the night, leaving Bill to pore over the books and huge tomes by himself.

The next time he sees him is as Bill enters the police station the next day. As he’s walking down the corridor to the conference room, Holden appears, falling into step naturally. Bill jumps and halts his steps for a second to regain his bearing.

“You –” he stops himself before someone can hear him. This is getting tedious quickly.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m aware you can’t speak right now, don’t worry. I’m here to listen, I’ll be quiet as a mouse.”

Bill hums disbelievingly and opens the door to the conference room. Cayden and Monroe are sitting at the table, the telephone between them put on loudspeaker. Seeing him, Angela waves him over.

“- if you’d like to come over now.”

“Thanks, Dr. McDougall. We’re on our way.”

Cayden hangs up while Angela turns to him, and the shadow dogging him.

“That was the medical examiner. They’re finished with the autopsy. We’re going to join him at the morgue. Are you coming?”

“Sure.”

Chairs scrape against the linoleum floor as his younger colleagues move to leave. Next to him, Holden says, “I can’t wait to hear what he has to say. Maybe it’ll make me remember.”

So much about being quiet as a mouse.

On the way to the morgue, Monroe tells him, “So we didn’t find any traces of semen at either crime scene. On the other hand, we found a lot of footprints around the murkier area. Forensics is working on differentiating the officer’s footprints that were at the scene and finding a possible unmatched pair. The cloth is also being analyzed as we speak.”

“Let’s hope we can gain more insight with this one,” he says, reaching for his cigarettes.

Holden, who’s still visible and sitting next to him says, “I never understood why people smoke. It’s disgusting.”

Bill bites his tongue, quelling the urge to tell him off and exhales noisily through his nose. Which makes Cayden look at him in the rearview mirror, confused. Ignoring the glance, Bill smokes, tapping ash out his rolled down window until they arrive at the morgue.

Sharp is not present when they enter, and Dr. McDougall meets them. Together they walk to the cold chamber where their newest victim awaits them. No matter how many times Bill has smelled the scent of dying flesh, it’s always nauseating, always takes him a while for the feeling to fade, for his nose to get used to it.

“Alright, lady and gentlemen, ready to hear about Jane Doe?” McDougall wants to know. 

All four of them nod, two unknowing about the fourth presence. Looking at decaying Jane, Bill is half-convinced she’s going to appear to him as a ghost too. But she thankfully doesn’t. He wouldn’t know what to do with two ghosts bothering him. 

“She seems to be in her late teens, early twenties. As you can see, she looks a bit strange, right? Sharp was right, that’s because she’s missing a lot of blood. It appears she was bled dry.”

“Excuse me –” Cayden interferes, “Bled dry?”

McDougall smiles a humorless smile, “Yes, Detective. Barely anything left and I’m certain that the blood loss was the cause of dying.” He carefully turns her around and brushes some hair from the back of her skull, “See this? Her attacker hit her over the head, same as your John Doe if I’m not mistaken, but it didn’t kill her. It was so she would lose consciousness. When she woke up, she must’ve had a massive headache and likely a concussion.”

Bill swallows the bile in his throat, sorrow overwriting every other emotion in his body. The MO is getting more and more familiar. Which means the same likely happened to Holden. He tries not to look at the ghost beside him.

“Toxicology report indicated that she’d been smoking marijuana sometime before her death, but it’s unlikely her killer fed her drugs. Or anything else for that matter. Her stomach was empty.” Next he points to her hands and feet, “There are ligature marks on her hands and ankles from where he tied her up.”

Bill rubs his hands over his mouth, digesting the information. “Any signs of sexual assault?”

“You would think so, hm. Surprisingly, no.”

At least one good thing if any of this could have a serious upside.

“This is what happened to me isn’t it?” Holden asks, horror and fascination swinging in his voice in equal measures, interrupting Bill’s thought process and his ability to listen to the examiner. Through clenched teeth, Bill murmurs as muted as possible, “Shut up.”

Not muted enough. Angela turns to him, “What?” She doesn’t look like she understood him, more like she’s asking what he said.

“I was just thinking out loud, sorry, go on.” That concerned expression appears on her face, the one Bill is getting all too familiar with.

McDougall continues as if nothing had happened, “I took her fingerprints. You might try to find her this way if she had a record. There was no other evidence on her body, except the obvious cloth. Your killer isn’t a complete idiot, unfortunately.”

“Time of death?” Monroe asks. 

“Our entomologist still has to finish his analysis on the insects, so I can’t tell you yet. Going by the state she’s in, weeks ago, that’s for sure.”

Bill thinks about his arrival, the picture. He’d have to ask Holden if he saw or sensed anyone else besides him at the burial sites more than four weeks. If only he could confirm McDougall’s statement without sounding like an absolute lunatic.

Finished with his report, they leave the chamber and walk to an adjacent room used for changing. McDougall pulls the gloves from his hands with a snap, throwing them into the waste bin with a flourish.

“Anyone up for some lunch?” 

They find a diner close to the morgue and talk some more about the case. Bill finds talking to experts that might approach it from a different perspective can often be helpful. Unbeknownst to the others Holden sits next to Bill, soaking up information and theories like a sponge while Bill drags a french fry through some ketchup.

Eventually McDougall explains, “We’re going to leave everything with you. I bet you’ll need it. And the data we’ve gathered, we intend to run through the system.”

“At this point anything is useful. Even small details. Like, the last cloth we found turned out to be a t-shirt, my guess – it was the victims,” Bill says.

“What makes you say that?” Cayden asks. Three pairs of eyes look at him expectantly. He almost forgot; he hasn’t told them about Rochester yet.

“The women I visited? Her son mysteriously disappeared in Myrtle Beach,” he begins, careful to choose his words. He can’t tell them yet that he knows she was right without sounding completely deranged. “Had an identical rib injury. I talked to her dentist and he’s going to fax dental records to Quantico. Dr. Johnson said they could identify the victim this way.”

Bill watches McDougall nod his head in agreement. “Hmm. Sometimes, if we don’t have dental records, we use pictures of the potential victim and layer them on top of a photo of the skull. But Johnson is right, this is the easier way of course.” 

“If only you could tell them the truth, right Bill?” Holden adds with a smirk. Bill ignores him and thinks, _you little shit_. 

At the precinct their short acquaintance comes to an end. While Bill, Monroe and Cayden get out of the car to enter the police station, McDougall stays at his, ready to drive back to Columbia. He leaves with the promise to call should they find their Jane Doe via fingerprints. Silently Bill harbors no doubt that he won’t find a match. Going by the victimology based on Holden, she won’t turn up in their system. Nevertheless, Bill waves him goodbye to which McDougall honks, disappearing between all the other cars. Holden disappears as well, promising to return later. 

Back inside, Bill walks over to his temporary desk to see if he missed anything. On it are notes from the Pearce family interview. He picks them up and looks over at Monroe, notes raised in front of his face, “Hey! Want to talk me through it?”

“Certainly.”

He knows the outcome of the interview, beforehand, without having read it but just like the other known facts to him, he has to pretend he’s not two steps further than his colleagues. It’s high time Johnson gets back to him with the result from the dental identification because he doesn’t know how much longer he can watch his steps, choose his words without giving himself away. 

Monroe, absolutely clueless to his inner turmoil, sits down next to him and begins relating information about the interview to him. It seems that Angela had the same hope as he had when she interviewed the family and it turned out that their son had broken some ribs. Making them show her on a copy of a skeleton from an anatomy book burned that hope. Even though their son had broken some of his ribs, they were the wrong ones.

While Bill was gone, she also got Wilson to reconsider asking for the psychic’s help, she tells him, making him smile at her honest aversion to shams complicating the investigation. She shows signs of coming into her own - validating his decision to give her a chance. 

“What’s her name?” Bill asks as inconspicuously as possible. 

Angela rolls her eyes, “Madame LaVue. It’s French for insight among others, if you want to know.” Although he supports her decision, he’s not going to tell her that he considers asking Madame LaVue for personal advice on how to deal with the Holden situation.

“Anyway, what now? What about Father Benjamin?”

“Now we wait for our guy’s analysis. While we wait, we might as well start sorting through the missing persons reports again. And talk to our priest. But let’s wait for some confirmation from the lab before we confront him.”

“What if our Jane Doe is from somewhere else? Like the first victim? I mean nothing is one hundred percent proven yet but you know in case, uhm this is the case?”

“We have to include every report of every county bordering on a beach then.”

“Can’t we hire someone to reconstruct her face? That would make it easier.”

In that moment Cayden walks by and stops, carrying a box of documents. “I’ll talk to Reynolds about it.” Captain Reynolds who is now more involved than before, a little bit older than Cayden, but just as serious about his job. 

A small smile grazes her lips, “Thank you.”

“Be right back,” he smiles back and puts the box on a nearby table. 

It doesn’t take long for him to return with good news. Apparently, Wilson is acutely aware of the severity of the crimes now that the media is highly interested in it and has no problem rubber stamping anything from Reynolds that might help solving this case. Reynolds assured him, they don’t even need to ask for Wilson’s permission. 

It’s not the only good news on that afternoon. Johnson or some higher entity must have heard his pleading. Shortly after Monroe has updated him on their crossed out potential victim, and Cayden arranges for someone to come and reconstruct the face of Jane Doe, the phone rings.

Bill glances from his temporary notes on victimology over to Monroe who is typing a report on their current findings. Her fingers stop moving on the typewriter as she looks over at Cayden who is organizing the room with new information, filing old ones.

The phone rings again. Cayden sighs and picks up.

“Detective Cayden, Charleston PD. Yes, hello. Yes.”

He turns to Bill. “It’s for you – a Dr. Johnson.”

Quickly covering his notes, he jumps from his seat and walks over. “Put him on loudspeaker.”

“Dr. Johnson? I’m putting you on loudspeaker, Agents Tench and Monroe are with me.”

Leaning against the table and over the phone, Bill speaks first, watching as Angela is slow to join them.

“Hi, Neil. It’s me, Bill. What have you got for us? Good news I hope.”

Johnson laughs, “Indeed. That dentist of yours acted like a regular Speedy Gonzales. He sent us your victim’s file first thing this morning. You’ve got a match.”

Bill takes a deep breath, although he already knew, hearing a scientific explanation verifying something he barely believed himself loosens the knot in his stomach slightly.

“Holden Ford,” he says, a tad too mournfully, deliberately avoiding Monroe’s and Cayden’s stares after what must be, to them, a strange outburst of emotions. Who knows what they would see if they were to take a closer look? 

“Exactly.”

“Thanks. Could you fax us the results?”

“Sure thing, Bill. Talk to you later.”

They hang up and for a moment it’s silent.

“Mrs. Ford gave me the last photo taken of her son. I’ll copy it and put it on the board.” Bill looks over to the corkboard, filled with new evidence from victim number two. “Then I’ll talk to her.”

Cayden lays a hand on his shoulder, looking like he doesn’t envy Bill the task of confirming the family’s suspicion. Angela, too, looks at him with something akin to pity.

*

“How did my mother take it?” Holden wants to know later that night, appearing by the window. 

Bill marks the page he was reading with a finger, “With poise. They usually do after a long period of time. They just want closure. Some even want to know every detail of the crime.”

“Why would they want to know what their children went through?”

“To shoulder some of their pain. You, as a catholic, should understand that concept. They think hearing about the atrocities will help their children’s soul find peace in the afterlife. Or whatever.”

“Did my mom want to know?”

“Not yet, but she will. Wait until your bones are given back to them for a proper burial.”

Judging by the shocked look on Holden’s face, the thought crosses his mind for perhaps the first time. Silently contemplating that notion he leaves Bill to finish reading a chapter on spirits in mythologies around the globe. 

“I have a sister, you know?”

“I didn’t. Younger or older?” Bill yawns and closes the book, resigned to the fact that Holden doesn’t show any inclination of helping. Stretching his arms above his head, moving his stiff neck left to right, his attention is drawn to Holden looking out the window all forlorn and homesick. 

“Younger. I truly wish her the best in life.”

Bill opens his mouth to give a retort, but he really doesn’t know what he should reply to this admission, how to spend comfort. So like a fish out of water he gapes until he closes his mouth again and turns on the TV to an episode of Dallas. 

“Bill –”

Bill interrupts him before he can continue, “Watch some TV with me. C’mon.”

Holden huffs frustrated, depressed. Keeps quiet. Tenderly he arranges himself on the bed next to Bill, stretching his legs, eyes fixed on the big brown box in front of him. He stays all through the episode, disappearing as the credits roll, leaving Bill to start reading through the books piled on his small coffee table once again until his eyes burn with exhaustion and he falls asleep. 

He’s woken by the church bell ringing down the street. How appropriate. The sound cuts through his lucid state, insistent on getting him out of bed and into the bathroom. A quick glance at his clock tells him that he has enough time to get ready to be present for Father Benjamin’s Sunday sermon.

Bill is fastidious about cleaning up, for the first time in what feels like months – thoroughly brushing his teeth, slow and precise as he shaves. As he turns his head this way and that to get rid of every stubble, Holden appears in the doorway behind him, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed.

“Good morning,” Bill says, getting used to Holden’s sudden appearances after all.

“I don’t think it’s him,” he says without preamble.

“Good morning to you too, Bill. How are you on this wonderful morning?” Bill mocks, dunking the razor in the water-filed basin. “Not too bad, thanks for asking. How are you, Holden?” He takes the towel, dabbing cream from his face while Holden’s reflection glares at him.

“I mean it, Bill. He has no motive.”

Bill walks past him back into the room to start ironing his shirt. “You’re the expert on that now, are you. Is there something you want to tell me, something to do with Father Benjamin?”

“I’m telling you - he has no motive, no car, no strength. Think about it. He’s an old man, how could he have dragged two healthy young adults into a car, out of a car, into his house. And which car? You really think he would be so stupid to rent one when he’s smart enough to barely leave evidence? A few weeks ago, you explained to Agent Monroe that it would be someone who is unable to hold a job for a long time, he does. Someone who gets into trouble with authorities. He _is_ authority.”

“Maybe. We don’t know. There are always exceptions to the rule, that’s why we need to talk to him and find out.”

“You’re pinning it on the wrong guy because you think it’s convenient.”

Bill takes a deep breath, putting down the iron. “Oh yeah? Who is it then, hm? Tell me, Sherlock, since you have it all figured out.” Holden stays silent. “You listen to me – for all we know he could go around killing innocent people because he thinks God tells him so. You,” he points at Holden, “know shit and don’t remember shit, so stop being a smart-ass.”

Aggressively he pulls the shirt from the ironing board, begins dressing, chooses a grey tie with blue circles, all while Holden is watching him, mouth twisted in an unhappy line. “And you stop acting like an asshole. You’re not the one who’s dead. What would you do in my situation? Your job is to figure out the psychology. So figure it out instead of poking around in the dark.”

Bill stops, back turned to Holden, rubs a hand over his forehead. He’s right of course. Holden’s state forces him to accompany Bill wherever he goes; like this he doesn’t have his own agenda. He’s right - Bill acted like an asshole even though he did promise to help.

Sighing, he dares to face Holden. “We will talk to Father Benjamin, no getting around it. But I promise that I won’t try to make him fit the profile. If he sounds trustworthy or has alibis, I’ll keep searching.” 

The look on Holden’s face tells him that he isn’t completely satisfied but enough to sit down in the chair and wait for Bill to finish. They leave the hotel and arrive at the church with half an hour to spare. Bill smokes. Holden is engrossed in one of the books until Monroe and Cayden arrive.

“Showtime,” he says, startling Holden as he opens the door and extinguishes the cigarette under the heel of his foot. The book is put aside in the dashboard, and Holden dematerializes and materializes outside the car, falling into step behind Bill. 

Compared to the usual crowd, they stick out like a sore thumb. Nobody knows them and Bill is sure some even make the connection that the tree of them are law enforcement. Middle aged women flocked together in small groups, in elaborate hats and costumes watch them like hyenas waiting for the next meal.

Watched like insects under the microscope, Cayden adjusts his tie, his hair, visibly uncomfortable being scrutinized by strangers who know exactly who he is, pondering and gossiping what he is doing here. Angela, like always, is more composed, stoically enduring it.

“Let’s find a seat,” Bill whispers to them, taking the few steps up to the church door. His gaze flicks up the massive red stone building to the cross looming high above them, humanity's effort to be closer to God. Subtly he glances back at Holden, walking right in front of him. Is it really some spiritual power keeping Holden’s soul like this? Could any God really be so cruel? 

He watches Holden disappear inside the dark interior, followed by Cayden and Angela. Unintentionally Bill is last to enter, shocked by the lack of natural light; the only source lamps mounted on the walls right and left of the nave.

The room is filled with quiet, echoing murmurs; people speaking in hushed tones with each other.

“Over there?” Cayden asks and points to a row in the middle with what looks like a good vantage point. Angela and Bill nod and the three of them take their seats, the pamphlet of today’s program in their hands. The seat next to Bill stays miraculously empty as people start to fill in, as if they can subconsciously sense Holden’s presence and stay clear of him.

“As a child I didn’t mind Mass or being told how to be a good person. But at some point I was so confused by my feelings. My - desires. It became unbearably stifling. I kept asking myself why I felt this way, why God had given me the ability to doubt and question my situation. Why someone was telling me it was all wrong. I stopped believing. And now look at me,” Holden reveals, eyes glued to the altar speaking as if in a trance. He leaves it at that and Bill has to remind himself to keep the questions he would like to ask in mind for a later time. “Why am I here?” he murmurs.

In that instant the organ’s booming, it’s almost spooky sound filling the halls of the church. The door is closed, and the good church-goers rise from their seats.

“Wait till he starts the sermon,” Angela whispers as everyone around them stares down into their hymnbook, singing. “Be prepared for weirdness.”

Father Benjamin enters, walks to the altar in his white robe, red stole adorned with golden crosses, cincture bound tight around his waist, followed by his procession. Arriving at the altar they bow low, the organ slowly fading out. Father Benjamin turns around, his eyes surveying everyone present, a smile appearing when he spots them. It’s deadly quiet, no coughing, no whispering, no shuffling of shoes.

He makes the Sign of the Cross, saying, “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

Everyone, the three of them included, follows suit, answering with, “Amen” and sits down again.

Facing the altar Father Benjamin mumbles a prayer then turns around and sprinkles Holy Water into the direction of the congregation. As soon as he’s finished the organ strikes up a new hymn. While everyone is too busy singing, Bill and Angela look around, especially keeping an eye on Father Benjamin. Cayden tries to blend in with the rest of the congregation, pretending. 

At first Bill doesn’t understand why Monroe is so put off by Father Benjamin since Mass continues as usual: a reading from the Old Testament, a Psalm about the glory of God and finally a passage from the Book of John. The longer it goes on, the more he begins to understand her reservations. Father Benjamin’s preaching style involves a lot of hand gestures, a swaying tone of voice – not like a preacher, more like a politician, like he’s trying to convince the congregation of divine guidance. Not divine guidance, Bill concludes, but Father Benjamin’s. And he’s succeeding.

Most of the congregation follows along wide awake, hanging on every word and obviously attuned to every part of Mass. Like a big well-oiled machine, they stand up in almost perfect union to sing, to answer to the priest, to kneel. Bill and the others participate in all of it, only Holden stays firmly seated. His face becomes more expressive with anger and pain the longer Mass drags one, the more he has to hear about salvation, about peace, about healing. About how Father Benjamin asks everyone to pray for the unidentified body in the forest. He is poignantly resentful by the time Communion is about to be administered. Bill has a hard time not staring at him or talking to him to calm him down.

“Are you going to do it?” Angela whispers, leaning towards him as they rise again, the people around them either singing or getting in line to receive the body and blood of Christ. His gut, led by archaic principles taught to him, tells him he should, but the fact that a spirit other than the Holy Spirit is sitting next to him, boiling with all kinds of feelings because it's trapped, changes his mind.

He leans in her direction, “Don’t think it’s a good idea. We’re here to keep an eye out. Did you plan on doing it?”

Monroe huffs, “Fuck no.” Bill expects her to elaborate, say something along the lines of _I’m not letting that man put anything in my mouth_ but she doesn’t and thinking twice about it he realizes she wouldn’t in this setting. Cayden, who heard her, turns to her with a raised eyebrow prompting her to turn to him and tell him that they ought to stay behind.

Standing and watching, they wait until the faithful have received their share of Christ. When everyone is seated for the last time Father Benjamin gives a few announcements, asking everyone once again to include Jane Doe in their prayers, then concludes Mass, departing to wait in front of the doors for the flock to find its shepherd.

The three of them wait until everyone else has left, forming the end of the line. As they press along the bench to get to the nave, Bill takes one last subtle look to where Holden was seated – to indicate for him to follow – just to see that he’s disappeared.

He has no way of calling out to him, to ask him where he’s gone. If he’s still here. Instead Bill has to act like nothing is wrong, not like his heart is racing because he’s afraid that something has happened to Holden during Mass, that he’s gone without having found peace. Taking a deep breath, inhaling the scent of old wood and the unmistakable smell of myrrh and incense, he trails behind, the last to leave the church.

Stepping outside onto the sunbaked steps of the church, the light is blinding. It takes a moment for Bill’s eyes to adjust. When they do, he sees Father Benjamin talking to a family about their upcoming baptism, a mother clutching her baby to her side. Spotting them approaching, he smiles at the young parents and wishes them well.

“Father Benjamin,” Cayden says in greeting, extending his hand for a handshake.

“What a pleasure to see you,” he says in return, addressing all of them. “We’re always delighted to welcome new faces in our midst.” 

Before Father Benjamin can go on about how great it is to have them, Bill jumps in, “Unfortunately, Father, we came for a different reason.”

The priest looks surprised.

“Actually, we wanted to extend an invitation to you. Would you be so kind to come to the station as soon as your schedule allows? Preferably today.”

“I’m sure I can arrange that. May I ask why, Agent Tench?”

“Oh nothing too serious, we just want to ask some questions, clear some things, you know. Routine stuff.” He accentuates his veiled casual words with a cigarette he lights. Father Benjamin gives him a half-smile, not completely convinced by Bill’s charade and nods anyway.

“I’ll join you as soon as my duties will allow me. If you’ll excuse me.”

With his hands crossed in front of him he walks over to the next group of people, seemingly unperturbed by the eyes of the law watching him. Slightly annoyed that the priest is either innocent or full of himself, Bill throws his cigarette down the steps, ready to leave.

“Let’s go.”

The three of them walk down the steps towards the car, church bells ringing above them.

Bill spends the early noon drinking one cup of shitty precinct coffee after another, worrying about Holden. At the height of his anxiety he excused himself, explaining that he needed some fresh air to clear his mind and prepare questions for the upcoming interview. In reality he found a secluded spot and called out to Holden but to no avail, his presence eluded him.

Until an elderly secretary steps into the conference room where Bill, Angela, Cayden waited, and a few other officers were helping with all sorts of things that needed to be done, to tell them Father Benjamin was led into an interview room at this very second.

At the same time they receive the information, Holden appears next to him. Putting his pen down and gathering his notes, Bill casts his gaze to Holden, his determined posture, eyes blazing with tenacity and his hands balled to fists in his pockets. Relief and exasperation in equal amounts wash over him at the sight. He won’t have time to talk to him now. Bill hopes he’ll get the opportunity later.

In front of the interview room Bill turns to Cayden and Monroe, “Ready?” When they nod he adds, “Like we planned, alright?” Then he opens the door strutting into the room with a smile to greet Father Benjamin and sits, the folder thick with notes, reports and evidence put on the table between them. Angela follows in the same fashion, carrying a tape recorder. Behind them the double-sided mirror conceals Cayden watching the whole procedure, focused on analysing Father Benjamin’s body language. Holden is sauntering through the room, around the priest, looking at him from all angles before stepping next to Bill. 

Bill starts, fighting the impulse to look at Holden, “Thanks for agreeing to meet us. We’d like to record the interview if that’s alright with you?”

“Whatever you need, Agent Tench.”

Angela leans forward to press the button.

“As you may have heard from the news, new evidence has come up. Some of it gave us a better understanding of what has happened, but it also raised questions. We would like to know if you’re able to clear those questions for us?”

“Like I said, Agent, whatever you need.”

“Perfect,” Bill says smiling, reaching for the dossier and opening it so only he can see its contents.

“How long have you been living in Charleston?”

“Since my honorable discharge in 1976. Vietnam, as I’m sure you already know.”

“And you’ve been a priest in the Sacred Heart Church since then?”

“That’s right.” 

“I want to talk to you about the first victim. Please explain why you were interested in blessing the bones. Did you know the victim?”

Father Benjamin looks – honestly taken aback by the question.

“How would I have known who the victim was?”

“That’s what I’m asking you.”

“I didn’t know, no.”

“Why do it then?”

“I wanted to help. I meant every word I said that day.” Father Benjamin leans back, his head sinking down, chin close to touching his chest. With a shuddering breath he looks up, “Have you ever seen true horror, Agent? Before you answer, I’m not diminishing your work. I am well aware of what a human can do to another human, the atrocities we’re capable of. Why do you think these horrible things happen? Because people lack a stable foundation. They lack faith. I’ve seen men, good faithful men, broken by this world. That’s the horror, losing everything you believe in. Faith, hope, love.”

Bill lights a cigarette while Angela takes over, “But why help a stranger? Why bless someone’s bones if he might not believe in the same things you do?”

“Does it matter? God told us to love thy neighbor as thyself. Whatever was done to this poor soul, no one deserves to leave this world scared and alone.”

“But the soul was already gone, right?” Bill asks, tapping ash into the ashtray, “You either go to hell or heaven. If you believe in purgatory even that. Why the emphasis on blessing the remains?”

“I understand that they are part of the investigation as long as it goes on, yet everyone of us is entitled to be laid to rest, wouldn’t you agree? Dignity even in death? Especially under these circumstances.”

They don’t answer the question. Instead Angela pulls the photo of Holden and his friends from the folder and pushes it across the table. Her finger taps against his face.

“Do you recognize this person?”

“May I?”

Angela gestures for him to take it. He picks up the photo, some of his fingers unable to curl around the picture and holds it in front of him from a distance, squinting at it as he regards it.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen this young man. Is that the victim?” Gingerly he puts the photograph back on the table, crossing his hands next to it. 

“Yes. How about the name Holden Ford?”

He takes a genuine moment to think and shakes his head, “Sorry, no.” 

Angela and he look at each other. Bill takes the last drag of his cigarette, stubbing out his cigarette, aware of Holden’s intense gaze along the side of his face.

“Where were you the evening of June 7th 1979?”

“I’m sorry, Agents, but that was six years ago. I don’t know. At church? At home? Maybe I was visiting someone in the community? Ask me what I was doing six days ago and I might be able to help you,” he jokes, exhibiting no sign of being careful to construct his lies, no signs of being uncomfortable with this line of questioning. Although Bill has sat in front of killers able to stay calm and collected, they always show signs of deliberation, of arrogance; playing games.

“Why do you think the killer chose this place to bury the bodies?” Bill asks, trying to change tactics, pushing a photo of the construction site and the forest over to rattle his memory.

Father Benjamin is about to open his mouth and answer when Cayden knocks at the door.

“Tench, there’s a phone call for you. It’s urgent.”

Confused, Bill gets up, trading places with Cayden and hurries out of the room, leaving Holden behind. His first thought is that something has happened to Brian. Or Nancy. 

Next door he picks up the phone. “Bill Tench, hello?” he asks, breathless even though he did nothing to warrant it.

“Hello, this is Dr. Leigh.”

“Dr. Leigh, yes, how are you?”

“Good good, tired. Listen, we’re finished with the cloth. You were right, it was a piece of garment, a shirt. What comes next is more exciting, though. We’ve got a partial fingerprint.”

“What? Really?” Bill turns to the mirror where Cayden and Angela continue the interview. Holden sensing his gaze turns to look at him with arms crossed.

“Also we compared all the footprints with boots from every person present at the scene and it’s matches across the board. Except for one. Between all the others was one single footprint we could not fit to any of ours. I’ll fax you the reports as soon as possible.”

“Wow, thank you so much. This is more than we hoped for and frankly more evidence than we’ve been working with so far.”

“You’re welcome.”

“We’re interviewing a suspect right now, so you might get your first set of fingerprints to examine very soon.”

“No problem. We’re also running the partial through the system. Most of them did time already.”

“Let’s hope. Any luck with Jane Doe’s fingerprints?” 

“Negative, sorry.”

“Look, we’ll keep in contact. I need to get back.”

After Bill hangs up, he wastes no time to return to the interview room. The room falls silent.

“Father Benjamin would you mind if we took your fingerprints?”

Excitement lights up Monroe’s and Cayden’s eyes, bodies close to vibrating with buoyancy. The priest answers, exhausted, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, “Not at all. I just offered your colleagues to have a look around the church and my house. Whatever you need, Agent Tench.” Turning to Angela he asks, “Do you have more questions to ask?”

“No, thank you, Father Benjamin. I think we’re done here. Detective Cayden will take your prints now. We’ll see each other later.”

She pushes the button to stop the tape recorder. Finished, Cayden leads the priest away from the interview room while Angela and Bill gather their things.

“What was the phone call about?”

“I’ll tell you and Cayden on the way over.”

To his dismay, he has to admit to himself and to Angela that the priest is weird but doesn’t fit the profile. They could interview him again after they know the second’s victim identity and time of death but his instincts tell him that this is exactly what Holden warned him of – pinning it on someone convenient.

“He’s letting us willingly into his house, into the church. We can confiscate as much as we want,” Angela says as they walk back into the conference room to put away the tapes and call it a day. “But something tells me we won’t find anything. I mean that guy is ancient, he suffers from arthritis and for what it’s worth, during the weeks he was under surveillance he did nothing out of the ordinary, didn’t behave strangely. It was the opposite Bill.”

She takes a pen and labels the tape, puts it into a drawer and swings her leather bag over her shoulder.

“He’s doing home visits to all kinds of people, he’s the founder of an organization delivering food to children living in poverty, he’s even on the local catholic school board and highly respected. My honest opinion is that he’s a war veteran with a savior complex.”

Coming back with fingerprints and an update to Reynold’s, Cayden joins them as they are about to leave, telling them that Father Benjamin is waiting outside. 

“What is your impression, Detective?” Bill asks.

Arms crossed in front of his chest, Cayden shakes his head, “I don’t know. I wouldn’t know what I’ve done a month ago, less so six years ago. I say we interview him again after the lab reports come back but my gut tells me it isn’t him.”

Bill sighs. Three people whose instincts tell them Father Benjamin is innocent, a profile that doesn’t fit.

“We took his fingerprints, you’re right - let’s wait and see what the results tell us.”

“Well, I guess in the meantime we’re going to search his house, eh?” Cayden says, already turning to go. 

They search his small, cozy bungalow house.

Accompanied by two other officers, every nook and cranny is looked at. Not that there is much to look at. Father Benjamin’s home is devoid of any unnecessary luxury, a spartan interior, single floored, empty cellar. He doesn’t even own a garage, another luxury he can’t afford living right in the heart of the city and doesn’t need without a car. They confiscate a pair of shoes, the only evidence that could potentially reap some results. Holden follows him around the house up till the very end, saying nothing but clearly signaling his annoyance and his opinion that they’re looking at the wrong person. He disappears at some point with a petulant, “See you tomorrow.” 

Father Benjamin, unbothered, brews coffee, offering cups to the agents and officers turning his house upside down; even asking if they’d like to inspect the church next. They decline.

Angela was right. Holden was right. It’s a waste of time.

Walking out of the precinct after writing a report, packing the shoes and the fingerprints, and readying them for transferal to Columbia, that knot in his chest, the one he’s been carrying around since Rochester, tightens with the realization that he doesn’t want to be alone after such an energy sapping day, after a full day of disappointing Holden. 

He wants to talk to someone but can’t. 

He truly and desperately doesn’t want to be alone. Stepping out of the police station into a semi-cool evening breeze he says, to avoid the second, “I noticed we haven’t had dinner yet. You know, a conversation outside of this case.”

Angela smiles, “Are you asking me out on a date, Bill?”

He knows her well enough after weeks of working together to detect the underlying humor in her voice, “Only work related, Miss Monroe.”

“In that case, I’d love to. I discovered this great Italian place a few days ago, wanna go there?”

Bill raps his knuckles against her car door and swaggers over to his. “I’m right behind you.”

The place is fancy and yet not fancy enough to warrant a reservation. Without waiting for too long, they get a table and two menus.

“On the way here something struck me about your name. Did you get teased as a child?”

Putting her menu away, Angela levels him with a funny look. “About my name?”

“Monroe.”

“Ah I see. Uhm, not really. I think Marilyn Monroe was too beautiful and successful to be taken as a comparative insult, don’t you think?” she laughs.

“You’re probably right,” he shrugs, getting a cigarette. “You mind?”

“Not at all. I’m used to it.”

“You’re not a smoker then?”

At that moment their waiter comes, taking their orders and leaves again. Time moves on. The conversation is – nice, Angela a good conversational partner. Still his mind is stuck on Holden, on his current situation. 

“What’s going on? You haven’t touched your food.”

Bill looks at the untouched steak, then into Angela’s worried green eyes. Maybe he can’t speak about it openly. What he can do is conceal the truth behind a veil of genuine interest. 

“Do you believe in the soul, Angela?”

She stops chewing, her eyebrows meeting above her nose in a surprised, confused frown.

“That’s a – difficult question.”

“Do you?”

She takes a moment to think.

“I believe that what we call the soul – the accumulated impressions we gather from our childhood, our upbringing, education, belief system – that’s the soul. The thing that controls our actions and our thoughts, you know. Basically, our brain. I don’t think there’s, uhm, something mystical inside us, something unexplainable which some may label a soul. Why do you ask?”

“Just,” Bill sighs, “Just a thought I had. Doing the work we do. Listening to the priest talk.”

While he digs into his food, she plays with the handle of her wine glass, thinking, taking a large sip.

Her mouth is red-stained when she opens it to speak, “My parents are both doctors, surgeons actually. Pure academia, if you know what I mean.”

“I think I do.”

She bites her lip, “They were pretty pissed when I joined the FBI instead of doing my doctorate. Don’t get me wrong, they were good parents – their version of me and my version of myself simply differed. Yet we’re very much alike. I realized I wanted proof of conditions, to make an assessment based on evidence I could see.” She takes another bite.

“Did you reconcile with them?”

“They got over it eventually. They are, after all, reasonable people. And I am their daughter.”

The remark - reasonable - in combination with her agnostic attitude irks him. Before this whole Holden mess, he probably would have agreed with her, now it rubs him the wrong way.

“In your opinion, anything that can’t be put to a test is somehow unreasonable?”

“That’s not what I meant,” she defends herself, “but that’s also not necessarily a bad thing, is it? In our line of work, we’re supposed to look at the evidence instead of making assumptions. I can try to emphasize with,” she takes a look around the restaurant, “well, these people but it’s not how I was raised and not something I believe in myself. I am not spiritually inclined.” She swallows, apprehensively asking, “Does that make me a bad person? Or a bad agent?”

Embarrassed at his intrusive accusation and thinking her statement over, Bill shakes his head. No, it doesn’t. He just doesn’t know which kind of person that makes him; a person that is haunted by a ghost, able to see the dead and to communicate with them.

He used to be like Angela. So what changed along the way? Has this always been slumbering inside of him? Is he truly losing his mind? No. He wishes the answer could be that easy, but Holden is the only anomaly in his life, an anomaly that feels very real – and as far as he knows, he exhibits no other signs of schizophrenia or any other disorder known to him per the DSM. Convinced that it also can’t be dementia or Alzheimer’s, he focuses his attention back on Angela and decides to let the tropic drop. Asking her about her childhood and her studies seem the far safer path to travel. 

After saying goodbye to Angela and trotting back to the hotel, he finds the room oppressively dark and desolate. To drone out his thoughts and fill the silence with life he turns on the TV while he gets ready for bed. Despite Holden’s statement that he’d come back in the morning, he misses his company for some inexplicable reason.

He leaves the bathroom door open as he brushes his teeth and undresses to step into the shower. Through the rush of warm water a commercial for a new local restaurant is playing, followed by a commercial for beer, then real estate. Bill closes his eyes to let the water wash away the grime and stress of the day with only partial success. As the warm water slowly fades, he wraps a towel around his hips and walks back to his room, a small part of him hoping Holden will wait for him, sitting on the bed watching TV, turning to Bill to – talk to him. It would be enough.

But the room is empty when he enters, reruns of The FBI playing in the background. Dropping the towel, he leans down to search for a clean pair of boxers. Hands roaming through the bag, he finds a pair, aware that he ought to do some washing, and another photograph he brought back from Rochester.

Dressed in underwear and nothing else he stumbles to the bed, transfixed by the photo in his hands. Mrs. Ford was nice enough to hand him a copy of a photo of Holden, not as recent as the one with him and his friends but close enough in age, with him, only him, on his twenty-first birthday looking way too serious for a young person full of potential.

Distracted his thumb follows the smooth contours of Holden’s static face.

He thinks of the silver cross above the kitchen door in the Ford’s house, the portrait of Saint Mary in the hallway, another cross above the entrance door. Even in his own childhood home this amount of devotion would have counted as excessive. Sunday church, Easter and Christmas Mass, yes, necessary; attending Communion and Confirmation as a child because that’s what was done. As an adult it’s almost fanatical to him – him a divorced man. 

He imagines an upbringing entrenched by Catholicism, the expectations, the golden cage. Leaving and attending college must have meant freedom for the first time. Stunted in his development like a bird with clipped wings, Holden probably caught up on it safely away from his family. And got punished for it, going by the rules of his faith. No wonder his soul had gotten no rest. Was this Holden’s purgatory?

Bill sighs and closes his eyes, burning the image of Holden into his eyelids, his mind, then folds the photo with careful, gentle hands and stows it away in his wallet.

For the first time in a while Bill gets the Bible from out of the bedside table and opens the pages to the Gospel of John 16. 


	6. Chapter 6

Holden is in the chair across the bed as soon as Bill opens his eyes; furtive his figure sits like a pillar with his head deeply bowed above the book in his hands. He glances up from the page he’s attentively reading to watch Bill as Bill watches him.

“Good morning,” he says, carefully, testing the pleasantry on his tongue.

“Good morning,” Bill chuckles, heaving himself into an upright position. “What are you reading?”

“This? Greek mythology. Previous to that,” he points to the book next to him, “Native American’s. I was thinking, Bill – about talking to the psychic. Madame LaVue seems the obvious choice, she knows about the case and might have a stronger connection to the other side. You think she'll be able to see me? Maybe she knows something we won’t find in any of these books.”

Contemplating Holden’s words, Bill’s fingers reach for the pack of cigarettes and the lighter. As metal scrapes open, Holden says, “Really?” His voice is dripping with contempt. “You just woke up.”

More amused than annoyed, Bill lights his cigarette and inhales the first taste of nicotine of the day, hand coming to rest on his thigh after tapping the ash off the burned tip.

“Exactly. You had no qualms chattering on about the case regardless of my mental state. Tell me, how much did you remember of your early college years?”

“What?”

“Yesterday, at the church.”

Overcome by grief and memories, Holden sets the book aside, rising to walk the length of the room like a caged animal.

“I went against every rule my parents had instilled in me. I got a girlfriend, my first real girlfriend, and had sex before marriage. Lots of sex.” He stops, looking at the wall in front of him with unseeing eyes, conjuring memories from long ago. Shaking his head, he keeps talking, “Then we broke up. My mother was furious with me. Told me I’d never find someone who’d want me again, someone pious who’d forgive me my flaws. Naturally, I didn’t tell her about the boyfriend.”

“On the plane you said -”

“I know what I said, and I didn’t lie. This is what I began to recall sitting in that church. You don’t know – how hard it is to appear like this, to make myself remember all the things I used to be.” He pauses. “So many things… I never told her – I had decided to change my major and do something more personally fulfilling. My application had gone through, I was supposed to study law after the semester break.”

The admissions hang in the air between them, like the smoke curling from Bill’s cigarette. Storing the information for later, he takes another drag, dispels the burned ash. 

“Were any of the men you went on holiday with your boyfriend?”

“I hadn’t been with anyone for a while when I died. I think people found it exhausting to stay in a relationship with me. I – I wasn’t the best partner either in their defense, I was selfishly liberating myself without caring for casualties. Debbie was the only one who tolerated me for more than a couple of months.”

Bill feels the corners of his mouth raise up in an ironic smile. Shunned, in life and death despite the catholic education. He finishes his cigarette and asks, “Any chance you saw someone bury Jane Doe?”

“No. I would have told you.”

“Alright,” he sighs, shifting to get his feet on the carpeted floor of his room, “Let me get dressed first. I’ll call and make an appointment with this Madame LaVue once I’ve got some breakfast in me to stomach that conversation. Could you try connecting to our second victim in, uh, wherever you go when you’re not here.”

Holden’s surprised gaze follows him into the bathroom, “I can. Do you think – wait!”

Bill closes the door, “Great.”

He didn’t count on Holden stepping through the closed door to continue his question, while Bill is about to do his business. “Do you think I’ll have a higher probability of success after we talked to the psychic?”

Shocked at Holden’s audacity, he blinks before he takes a deep breath, fighting down the blush of anger threatening to bloom on his face, “Get the fuck out, Holden!”

“Fine, fine,” he says, raising his hands in a gesture of annoyed surrender and disappears. A preternatural sixth sense has Bill thinking, he’s not gone but is waiting, invisible, impatiently, for Bill to hurry up.

“Holden, if you’re still here, I swear to God I will kill you a second time, I’ll find a way.”

The door handle moves silently, without being touched by an earthly being. The door opens. And closes.

Bill shakes his head and rubs his hands over his face in frustration. He wonders how many ghost stories are actually true and if no one ever believes them because those haunted are always haunted by the same brand of ghost as Holden. Something tells him they’re not, though.

He finishes in the bathroom to see Holden sitting in the chair in the same position and the same book.

“Are you at least taking some notes?” he asks, looking for a clean shirt (unaware of eager eyes roaming across his half-naked body). Damn it, he still hasn’t washed his clothes. And why isn’t Holden answering his question? Pulling a semi-clean shirt out of his bag he turns to the other man.

“Did you hear me?” That seems to do the trick.

“Yes! Sorry, I mean yes,” he hurries to say, lifting some paper he’d stolen out of Bill’s notepad, filled with his handwriting. 

Bill hums in agreement, clueless to what else to say, and finishes to get dressed. “I’m gonna get some food, see you later.”

“Later, yes.”

Confused at the strange display of behavior, even going by the usual benchmark of Holden Weirdness, Bill turns to leave his room.

Returning with a full belly, he finds Holden exactly where he left him. From the reception he’s brought the yellow pages, thick and finely printed. And as he sits on his bed and opens it to look for Madame LaVue, natural curiosity brings Holden drifting over next to Bill to help look for her business. As close as that night at the beach; Bill would only have to reach out with his fingers. He doesn’t register that he’s stopped looking until Holden makes a little noise of triumph.

“There.” His finger points to the number encased in mythical looking symbols, an eye above her name and an ornate pretentious border. It doesn’t bode well. Nevertheless, he promised. So with Holden enthusiastic blue eyes watching his every move, he leans over to the phone and begins dialing the number.

The line beeps, beeps, beeps again and again. A rustle.

“Madame LaVue’s, readings and séance’s, the Madame herself speaking.”

Bill closes his eyes, tries not to cringe in second-hand embarrassment and irritation, lest he shows it through the phone.

“Hello? Someone there?”

“Good morning, Madame LaVue,” he starts and looks at Holden, aggravated at having to say the name; Holden only smiles innocently, “I’m, uhm, I’d like to make an appointment with you.”

“Ah, nothing easier than that,” she laughs, while Bill hears her rustling, probably opening her calendar, “Who do I have the pleasure of talking to?”

_ Oh fuck _ , Bill thinks, panic racing down his body. He hasn’t thought about that. Is he going to be honest? Should he pick a disguise? She’ll know who he is by the time she sees him anyway.

He tries to stall to come up with something quickly, “Don’t you know being a psychic and all?” She laughs a fake full throttle laugh.

“That’s not how my powers work.”

Good God, why did he let Holden rope him into this?

“Uhm, William Ford’s the name,” he lies to Holden’s astonishment, his forehead wrinkled as he stares at Bill clenching his teeth. William Ford? What was he thinking?

Madame LaVue laughs again, “I see,  _ Mr. Ford _ .” She pronounces his name in a manner that sounds like she knows he’s lying through his teeth, using the name of a business mogul no less. “No matter. We’ll meet each other sooner than later. If you’d like you can have the three p.m. appointment.”

“Today?”

“‘Course, dearie. Shall I pencil you in?”

“Sounds perfect, see you later.” He hangs up and takes another deep breath, which he exhales viciously through his nose, fingers itching for the next cigarette. Next to him, Holden is practically vibrating with galvanized energy.

“When?”

“Three p.m.”

A big grin appears on his face. Bill is too skeptical to share his enthusiasm. “I need to think of something before we get there, I can’t possibly go in there as a federal agent.”

“Why not? She won’t care. Just act like you want to question her. Act like you don’t ridicule her for her profession.”

Rubbing a hand over his neck where he feels tension coiling and wandering up to his head, he says, “Always an easy solution for everything, hm?”

“You’re the one making it unnecessarily complicated.”

The statement makes him chuckle in disbelief, damn near affectionate. “Easy to say for someone who isn’t bound by mortal practices anymore. On second thought, maybe nothing’s changed.” He turns his eyes from Holden’s glare to the clock next to the bed and curses – he’s forgotten the time; sure, that Monroe and Cayden are already at the station, wondering where the hell he is. With hurried steps he collects his briefcase and jacket to leave for the police station.

Holden moves with him, dancing around him and following him out of the room and the hotel and into the car.

“I’ll have you know that I was very timid,” he eventually says, having thought about it long and hard.

“Timid? You? After telling me that you threw out your morals and beliefs so you could literally fuck anything with two legs and lie to your parents while you’re at it.”

Holden does a full body turn, mouth gaping, “I did  _ not _ whore around as you put it. I had standards, okay? Maybe I wasn’t the best partner but that doesn’t mean I was a complete jackass. My mother raised me to be a good person. At least  _ I _ didn’t kill anyone.” He huffs and pouts, turning away from Bill. “Bend the rules a little, sometimes, but I never intentionally hurt someone.”

Heat surging to his face, Bill keeps quiet, peering at Holden from the corner of his eyes. He ought to apologize. But the silence doesn’t last long enough and before he gets the opportunity to swallow his pride and say sorry, the other man shows his commendable ability to bounce back exceptionally fast.

“I’ve also been thinking about the Cabot woman and what she said about her neighbor. I know you think she’s crazy and I agree she’s strange and yet, wouldn’t it be wise to see if she’s on to something? Delusion grounded in reality?”

Bill thinks about the fact that Holden, an otherworldly being, exists, walking the earth; about the victims being buried face down to prevent their souls from leaving, about the seemingly non-sexual intention of the killings, how close he lives to the dumping sites, the right age, an old house in the middle of nowhere...

“I’m going to talk to Cayden about sending some officers to the house, alright?”

Glancing over at Holden reveals a happy, satisfied look on his face. “So you’re finally listening to me. About time.”

Bill bites his cheek to stop the well of mixed emotions from bubbling over, “What was his last name again?”

“She didn’t say.”

“Hm. At least we know the address.”

Bill turns into the station’s parking lot and finds a space. As he kills the engine, he addresses Holden one last time, “No talking to me during work. It’s distracting.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll see you later.” Then he vanishes, leaving Bill to walk into the precinct on his own where he finds Cayden and Monroe talking, both of them looking at him with a smirk at his late entrance. Half-convinced they will make a statement about it, Bill beats them to the punch.

“I know, I know I’m late. There is some personal stuff I have to sort out.”

Cayden waves his hand in dismissal. “We’re sick of looking at those smiling faces ourselves and decided to take a break.”

“Yeah,” Monroe sighs and rubs her eyes, “I’ve begun dreaming about them.”

“About who?”

“Them,” she says looking over at the board. “The victims, especially Jane Doe. And the priest and Allegra Cabot. Sometimes all those missing people.”

Getting a coffee and joining them, Bill prompts her to continue, worried for her mental well-being, intrigued to know whether they suffer from some of the same symptoms as he does.

“Weird dreams. In them, she’s always faceless but she tries to talk to me anyway. She communicates in – indecipherable flashes of – signs and – bizarre impressions.” The smiles she gives them is self-depreciating, a bit wobbly. “Sorry, this is the first case I’m intensely involved in. I guess it happens if you’re thinking about it non-stop. Our conversation also probably added fuel to that particular fire.”

“You can’t take it home with you,” Bill advises, despite not listening to his own advice often enough, “You need to compartmentalize if you want to continue with this job. And stop when it gets too much. There are always others to help with the workload and pick up where you left off. It might not seem that way but believe me, there are.”

Cayden raises his cup, declaring, “I’ll drink to that.” The tension broken, they exchange a few words on upcoming leads that need to be followed and considered, then go back to splitting the workload. While waiting for the artist and the call from forensics, Cayden is asked to sort through the reports, and Bill turns to Monroe in order to discuss the latest developments for the profile. Both of them carry a cup of coffee over to the board.

“A man and a woman, highly unusual. On the surface no sexual component. Which means the killings are otherwise motivated. Based on what we know from Holden,” here he nearly slips and forgets to state his last name, saying his first name in an all too familiar tone, “Ford, we need to think about what he sees in them, what they represent for him. Ford was somewhat of a social outcast with only a handful of friends. Got abducted after a night out with them. He’s young, good-looking, healthy. According to his mother responsible and morally upstanding, had a higher education. Catholic background.”

“And the UNSUB knew all of this. How? Did he talk to him?”

“Speculation. But yes, we must assume he carefully chose his victims. These were no random killings, and at same time opportunistic. He selected his perfect victim from a pool of let’s say candidates. I wasn’t sure before but I’m now – he drives around, watches them for a while or gets them in a situation where he can get to know them and approaches only if he deems it safe.”

Eyes fixed on the autopsy report and the countless pictures, Bill slurps the last of his coffee. And although Holden is nowhere to be seen, like he promised, his voice is haunting the back of Bill’s mind, just a tiny whisper – about how Bill shouldn’t be too sure of his initial profile.

“I know I said this has nothing to do with a cult killing.”

“But you changed your mind?”

“Not exactly. I’m still convinced this is one individual. What I’m talking about is motive. If it’s not sexual, what else could it be? He sees something in them he hates, something which gives him permission to kill them. Looking at this, I’m sure religion is significant in this case. Burying them, face down nonetheless after bleeding them dry suggests misguided practices. I’m not sure I wanna know what he’s doing with it.” The past nights bend over books come to his harried mind; of a Hungarian queen bathing in the blood of virgins, of wild tales of vampirism, of dogmas inherently tied to this life-giving force, sacrifices. 

Monroe visibly thinks about it, biting her lip, her forehead wrinkled. “Religious mania? He wouldn’t be able to act this controlled. He’d be suffering from some form of mental illness.”

“Maybe he does. We’ve had had these mixed types in the past. I’ve also been thinking of sending some officers to check in on Miss Cabot’s neighbor.”

“Mentally ill but cared for by his grandmother? She would have to know.”

Bill shrugs, reaches for his cigarettes in his breast pocket. “I figure we have to chase down every lead. Let’s invite him, have a look at the house, to be sure.”

“You’re the expert.”

“Not exactly, I’ve never had a case like this before,” he admits. “Listen, you explain it to Cayden, I’ll write it down and make it official.”

Quarter past two Bill finishes the last bullet points for the victimology and updated profile, excusing himself with a half-hearted explanation that his private matters aren’t settled yet and that he’ll return later. Angela throws him an unsubtle upset look, like she doesn’t want to get on his bad side aware of their roles as she is, but unable to help herself nevertheless. Opting to ignore the glare he leaves, sticking a cigarette into his mouth.

Holden joins him back in the car, strangely quiet for once. Maybe Bill should savor this moment. But Bill has gotten used to his imploring nature, his relentless chatter like the endless singing of the cicadas Bill can hear all hours of the day.

“Don’t be nervous,” he tries to reassure, carefully stepping on brittle ground to test where the foundation of Holden’s strong will crumbles.

“Aren’t you? So far every book I’ve read is too shallow and lacking explicit explanations.”

“Yeah. I mean what did you expect? That books about dark magic and satanic rituals would be lying around in a library? The topic has people scared shitless and acting like idiots. Look, the best we can gather from these sources is proof of spirits existing since the dawn of time. So we shouldn’t ascribe your state to occultism.”

One hand on the wheel, Bill throws the cigarette butt out the rolled down window glancing at Holden’s stony profile, wind blowing into his face, leaving his perfectly styled hair alone.

“I see, that’s not enough of an answer for you. God, you’re obstinate,” Bill sighs, muttering under his breath. “Did you manage to talk to our Jane Doe?”

He’s very curt when he replies with “No.”

Madame LaVue’s home is in a part of town easily accessible from the center yet far enough away from it for the houses to become bigger and obviously richer. Her Victorian style home is distinguishable by the witchy touch to the facade – fashionably decorated in dark colors it stands nestled between houses belonging to what must be typical families. Next to the well-trimmed lawn and the anthracite colored pebbled pathway a sign declares her profession and name.

As Bill drives up to the curb to park the car at the side of the road, two things come to his mind: firstly, he forgot to create a cover, second a few crows sitting atop the sign take their leave – how convenient.

“I’m warning you, as soon as I say we’re leaving, we’re leaving. Got it?”

Holden shoots him a glare but nods anyway. He is the first to exit the vehicle, doing so by simply gliding through the door, and walks up to the door. Bill follows with a shake of his head and leisurely steps.

The doorknob consists of two brass lions which heavily fall against the old, dark wood when Bill uses them to knock. It doesn’t take long for the door to open and Madame LaVue to greet them with a big smile, letting them in with a shout of, “What a surprise!”

Inside the touch of ineffable scents is heavy in the air; the type one usually finds in these establishments.

“Welcome. Would you like a drink, Agent?” she drawls the ‘agent’, clearly enjoying the short lived power she has. 

“No thank you,” Bill smiles tensely, hyper aware of Holden standing close behind him, taking stock of the interior.

“And what led you to my humble abode? Surely a man of your,” she examines him from head to toe, “trade wouldn’t voluntarily seek me out?”

The air behind him shifts, charged with bristling emotions which send a shudder down his spine.

“This case is highly unusual; we’re trying to get help wherever we find it, I have some questions I’d like to ask.”

“Please,” she grins brightly, “this way.” Her arm extends towards the right side of the house.

Seated at the round table in the middle of the lavishly decorated living room, Madame LaVue lights three thin black candles with a long match, the stick rasping in the silence of the room. With a flick of her wrist the flame is extinguished, the candles providing no additional light with the afternoon sun blasting through the window.

The Madame takes a seat left from Bill. Holden sits across from him, looking at her with his big doe eyes, hoping, pleading.

Bill clears his throat. “Hypothetically,” he starts, crossing his hands atop the table, “if a spirit were to – haunt someone, how would you know?”

“Hm, hauntings can take all kinds of forms. It depends on the spirit and how receptive one is to the spiritual powers surrounding us,” she explains, gesturing around the room.

“Could you elaborate on that?”

“In how far, sweetheart?”

Holden rolls his eyes at that, groaning. Bill ignores him.

“What are the requirements for a ghost to come into being? Any ideas why someone won’t or can’t leave?”

“That also depends on the spirit. Some have unfinished business; others cling to this life because they don’t want to let go. Mr. Tench I feel there’s something else you’re not admitting, something is occupying your mind. Don’t be shy.”

Her sparkling violet crystal earrings catch the light of the candles as she leans across the small table to look at him with inquiring eyes. At once he realises, her methods are not so different from his, merely the outcome drives them into opposing directions.

“Tell me what you’ve gathered from the crime scenes. What kind of spirit would haunt these grounds?”

Something flashes in her eyes. “You’ve already met them, haven’t you? Oh my, I feel it now, one of them is following you,” she breathes excitedly.

Bill tries not to indulge her, knows she’s playing a part, keeps his line of questioning, “What would it take to help them move on? Hypothetically speaking.”

“Ask her about ritual killings,” Holden interjects at the same time Madame LaVue inquires, “Shall we speak to it and ask it ourselves?” 

Annoyance and something akin to panic gripping him, Bill soldiers on with his questions, “What if the spirit doesn’t know?” and falters at the way the Madame’s determined demeanour; looks over at Holden, giving him a clear sign to shut up. 

The medium, spurred on by Bill’s subtle interest in the topic, his side-eying glances, puts her arms across the table, palms down and stares into the flames, breathing deeply.

“We’re going to lift the veil now,” she commands, takes a little bell that’s been sitting on the table inconspicuously so far and rings it, once, twice, thrice. “I’m calling on any spirit with us right now to communicate with us any way that you can. We don’t mean you any harm. We just want to talk. And find out what happened to you.”

“There’s no need, Madame, I want to know if an outside force could trap someone? Rituals to prevent a soul from leaving?” Bill says, avid to stop her. At the same time Holden sighs, “I’m right here. Can you hear me? Hello?”

“Uh,” she opens her eyes and looks at Bill, “Did you feel that? A cold breeze went up my arm and around my neck – ah, it, it feels like it’s trying to suffocate me.”

With flourish she closes her eyes again, bowing towards the table. Bill has to hand it to her, Madame LaVue does her job incredibly well, doing exactly what a psychic is supposed to do – spouting bullshit and being caught up in rhythmical moaning and groaning with her eyes closed as if transported to another dimension, her hands flat on the tablecloth. She has no idea how to speak to ghosts, she has no inkling of anything supernatural and how to see it.

Slowly Bill looks over to Holden with a raised eyebrow and catches his eyes. For Bill the matter is settled. Their medium, the woman Holden has put his faith into, won’t be able to help him. A hard pill to swallow but down it must go. Except Holden doesn’t seem to share his opinion.

“Hey, I’m right here. If you’re unable to see me, answer his questions instead of deflecting them.”

Madame LaVue ceases her motions and the sounds leaving her mouth, her eyes staying closed as her head falls into her neck slightly. She stays silent, then acts out a full body shudder.

“Someone hurt it. So badly it won’t let go, can’t rest.”

Through her on-going theatrics Holden begins talking to her to try grab her attention.

She doesn’t hear him.

Which makes him more desperate, his speech becoming increasingly strident, aggressive. Caught between the two of them, Bill is stuck observing them, the only one in the room truly feeling the physical manifestations of Holden’s anger across his body as goosebumps break out along his arms, the fine hairs at the back of his neck standing on end.

“I’m right fucking here. Stop that charade, look over here! Tell me – or him – how this could’ve happened!”

Madame LaVue gasps, “Ohh spirit, talk to me, tell me what ails you.”

“I AM talking to you, you stupid bitch!”

Shocked at Holden’s outburst, Bill averts his attention away from Madame LaVue, uncaring of the witness in the room and what she might think of him and begins talking, “Holden! Calm down.”

Confused, the medium stops her acting, opening her eyes to look owlishly at Bill talking to what appears to her, thin air.

“She can’t hear you, it’s over. This was a dumb idea. C’mon we’re going.”

“No!” His eyes are sparkling with fury, his fist slams down on the table with divine wrath. The impact has the table shaking, Madame LaVue clutching her hand to her chest in shock, looking at the shuddering wood. For the first time the woman, making her money with spiritual readings and scamming it out of naïve believers, is witness to a real haunting. 

"Ohh, this spirit is angry."

Disbelieving and done with his patience, Bill exasperatedly says, "You think?"

“I’m not leaving until someone can tell me why I turned into  _ this _ . And how to stop it. I want to know why  _ you _ of all people could hear me. Don’t you want to know the reason we met?” His voice cracks with a myriad of emotions at the question.

Bill wants to say  _ Of course, but she isn't the solution. And you going off like this won’t help either _ . But the psychic is faster than he is. Madame LaVue leans across the table, stretching her hands towards Bill, eyes open and blazing with frenzied need, "Let's join hands and welcome the spirit to our table, together.”

“Yeah, Bill, let's do that,” Holden mocks with knitted brows, stretching his hands towards her.

"Don’t,” he tells Holden, genuinely afraid of what’s going to happen and turns to the psychic, “Lady, I'm sorry to have wasted your time. I'll be going now."

In that moment, Holden forcefully rises from the chair and pushes it to the ground in the process. And Madame LaVue grabs his hand in an iron grip.

Still unreasonably theatrical she beckons, “You’re safe here, Holden.”

“That’s what I thought coming here with my friends. That’s what I thought, putting my fate in his hands!” he screams, his finger pointing at Bill, his face a mask of rage and misery.

“Stop tormenting yourself, oh spirit. Go, go back to your maker. Leave knowing this good man will bring justice!” Her voice lowers, “I can feel it, I can hear it. It’s whispering into my ear.”

With a look of disbelief Bill is attempting to pull his hand back and leave, fed up with the psychic and Holden’s hair-raising increasing indignation. 

“I tried! For years I tried! I screamed and I begged, and no one listened! I wanted to leave! I  _ was _ ready to move on!”

Throwing her body back against the backrest of the chair, Madame LaVue gasps, then starts muttering something in Latin.

Bill watches them, overwhelmed by the cacophonic pandemonium of her moaning and screaming and muttering and Holden’s desperate attempt to get her to see him, to provide answers.

And then suddenly Holden has had enough. He reaches across the table. The candles flicker. A dark presence casts a looming shadow over the room.

Madame LaVue takes a deep breath, her eyes wide open and Holden – is gone.

All sound, gone. 

“Holden?” Bill asks.

Madame LaVue’s teeth shatter. 

She stammers, “Cold. So cold…Lonely...” Air sharply inhaled, her eyes widening more, her head turning to Bill. Her chest is rising and falling quickly.

“Bill?” Although her voice is the same, something in it overlaps with it, sounds like –

“Holden?”

“Fuck, what happened?” Madame LaVue, Holden?, looks down at herself. “Am I possessing her?” he asks, his voice going up an octave. “That’s not what I wanted.”

“Then get out of her.”

“I don’t know how.”

“The same way you got in.”

“You’re not helping!”

Whatever it was in the end, desperation, fear, the psychic struggling to swim back to consciousness, they don’t know and will never know.

Before Bill’s very eyes something unexplainable happens: just as quickly as Holden possessed her, he’s expelled, forcefully, falling to the ground, lying on his back and staring up at Bill. He can see that Holden opens his mouth to say something, face rueful, but vanishes, suddenly and without warning - like the ghostly hands which had the room enveloped like a dark damp cave in the middle of the day.

Outside the sun is still shining, casting its light once more into the room, onto the shocked hunched Madame LaVue who is close to hyperventilating.

Sorry to have brought her into this situation, Bill searches for the kitchen and pours her a cold glass of water. She hasn’t moved when he returns and offers it to her badly shaking hands.

“Listen, I’m very sorry about what happened. Is there anything I can do for you?”

She takes a large gulp, turns to him with tear stained eyes. Upon closer inspection he can see that the blood vessels in her eyes have burst and that her black hair is streaked with grey, in complete disarray. She shakes her head, still unable to formulate words.

“Again – I can’t apologize enough. Do you need an ambulance?”

She shakes her head again, swallows and opens her mouth to croak, “I want you to get out of my house.”

Not knowing what else to say, Bill states, “I’m going to leave my card with you, if you’d like to talk.”

As he fishes a business card and all the money he’s got on him right now out of his wallet, the picture of Holden presents a blunt reminder of what has happened. Bill leaves the money and the card on the table in front of her and sees himself out without another word. 

The whole experience has him so shaken, occupying his mind that he drives aimlessly around for a while. Eventually he stirs the car towards the police station, calmed somewhat by the red brick building. This time Bill isn’t afraid of Holden leaving and never returning, empathic enough to understand that he needs time.

Angela is furious with him when he enters on shaky legs. “Where were you, Bill?” she asks accusingly, backed by Cayden who is crossing his arms. Seeing the state he’s in, how pale he must be she changes her tone, “Are you – alright?”

Bill blinks, the world shifting back on his axes. He has to show professionalism.

“Uhm, yeah, it’s the personal matter. I’m fine. What is it?”

Bill can sense that they want to ask more questions. They don’t believe him or in the very least know something isn’t right.

“We got a call from Dr. Leigh. The artist was also here,” Monroe begins carefully, “And I know reconstructions are never a reliable source, but we think we found her. We have a young woman, reported missing a little over two months ago, which correlates with the time of death. We wanted to talk to her parents. Not without you, though.”

He looks at their hopeful faces, then at the watch on his wrist, cognizant how tired he is from his little trip to Madame LaVue’s, and how badly he needs to speak to Holden.

“Call and set up a meeting with them tomorrow. We need preparation. And some rest.”

  
They agree (reluctantly and only out of sympathy for Bill) and get back to work. Mechanically, Bill walks over to his desk, staying there for the rest of the early evening, looking at photos and reports but seeing and reading none of it. The events he was a witness to won’t leave his mind: Holden’s desperate attempt to be seen and heard by others; others who could help him understand his predicament. It’s something Bill tends to forget, too absorbed in finding Holden’s killer. This is what the people on the other side of the interview table must feel like. Angela startles him out of his thoughts by calling his name. Outside it’s already getting dark. Time to go.

No matter how hard he tries, he can’t fall asleep, his thoughts always coming back to his afternoon at the psychic, picking apart the reason for going there, Holden’s behavior and his temporary possession of Madame LaVue, his frigid silence. Ever since he came back to the hotel, Bill has tried talking to him, telling him to come back. Nothing.

Now he wonders, what else is Holden capable of if he puts his mind to it? How much power is in him? But most of all Bill thinks about the power Holden has over him. He’s scared of himself because he can’t answer the question how far he’s willing to go to help the other man. What if Bill never finds his killer? Will Holden be damned to walk this earth, angry and hollow, a shadow of his former self or what’s left of it? Damned to follow Bill until he dies and what then?

And what of him? What will become of Bill once Holden is gone? He’s scared. Of himself – because Holden has given him purpose again, has made him feel alive and --

His thoughts stop spinning as a slight breeze wafts through the room. In the light, shining through the slants of his hotel room, Holden appears, half illuminated, half hidden in darkness, at the foot of his bed. Watching. Waiting.

“What is it?” Bill whispers, careful not to disturb the darkness surrounding them, harmless and soft.

“Can I lie down with you?”

Bill doesn’t know how to answer that question.

“I promise I won’t behave inappropriately, I just,” he sighs and balls his hands into fists.

Bill looks at his tormented face and gently says, “Yeah.”

At that a small smile graces Holden’s lips as he thanks him and walks to the other side of the bed to lie down next to Bill. Bill rolls on his side to face Holden, his slightly curled frame, also lying on his side, his hands supporting his head as he simply watches Bill.

They don’t say anything and after a while of comfortable silence Bill falls asleep. Before he drifts off, he thinks he feels something touching his cheek in a calm and soothing manner, but maybe he’s already dreaming. 

*

Holden joins him between the news that neither finger nor footprints from Father Benjamin fit the ones they’ve gathered, and the Bauer family’s visit. He sits down at the edge of Bill’s desk, giving him a half-smile and watching as Bill finishes his compilation of questions and evidence they need to talk through with the family.

Later at the family’s well-maintained modest home in Georgetown he regards them with pity and empathy as Mrs. Bauer breaks down crying, leaning against her husband who is clearly putting all his strength into keeping it together. Bill guesses Holden either relates it to his own family or does indeed possess a big heart under all that snark and know-it-all attitude. The way they looked at the reconstruction, provided details of Stephanie’s body and her disappearance (taken one night while walking home from a friend’s), made it clear enough who their missing Jane Doe is. And yet Cayden, together with Monroe, have to ask to be let into Stephanie’s room to take fingerprints, to create a mosaic of the young woman which will help them find her killer. 

“What can you tell me about your daughter? Anything that might help us, her character, political views, the friends she had,” Bill asks gently, clicking his pen open.

“She is – was – a good girl,” Mr. Bauer explains. “Always outgoing and nice, and easy to befriend. It’s not like she is, excuse me, was overly popular but she was liked by those who knew her, you know? Ready to help if someone needed help. Politics on the other hand never really interested her – too complicated.”

“This might sound like a weird question but what denomination do you belong to?”

“Southern Baptist Church.”

“And would you say religion plays an important role in your lives? In Stephanie’s life?”

By now Mrs. Bauer’s tears have dried. She daps at her wet cheeks with a tissue. “I’d say so, Agent. It was always important to us to provide Stephanie with the right kind of education. To raise her the right way. We even sent her to our local catholic High School. As far as I know she was still regularly attending Mass in College. During summer break she volunteered at the county’s Bible Camp. Why are you asking?”

Bill taps his fingers against his notepad, then says, “At the moment we believe your daughter’s murderer might be religiously motivated. Did she have a boyfriend?”

“Not that we know of.”

“Was she trusting towards strangers?”

“Well,” Mrs. Bauer swallows, “She would  _ never _ have turned down someone in need. She saw the best in people, not the worst.”

_ Ah _ , Bill thinks. “Is it probable she got into the car with someone she didn’t know?”

If possible, Mrs. Bauer’s face turns even paler. “Stephanie, she likes, used to, I mean, hitchhike a lot,” Mrs. Bauer stammers.

“Could you give us a list of close friends we can call?”

As Mrs. Bauer writes down names and even telephone numbers down on his notepad, footsteps on the stairs announce Monroe’s and Cayden’s return to the living room. In their hands they carry two bags of evidence. With light steps Angela sits down next to Bill and across from the Bauer’s.

“We took some fingerprints for a verifiable identification and this,” she clarifies by sliding a diary, a calendar, and some photos out of the second bag. “I know this is hard for you and I’m sorry for the pain you go through but we might need to come back, should we need more evidence.”

There’s nothing Bill can add or wants to add. After giving their consent and affirming that they’ll do anything to help, the family walks them to the door and the four of them leave the mourners, and Georgetown, behind. 

Back at the station, Bill begins adding additional information to the victimology under Holden’s watchful gaze. Unashamed he’s in Bill’s space, reading over his shoulder, muttering the occasional sentence, stirring the hairs at Bill’s nape. Although the feeling of being watched like this is nerve wracking to a degree, reminds Bill of his early academy days, it’s also soothing, exhilarating, because it’s Holden doing the watching. Holden who mutters, “Is this how you see me?” in amazement. Bill reads over the last bullet point he wrote down and guesses to the wrong ears it sounds a little bit embarrassing, overly, absurdly expressive perhaps. He might have to change it. 

The casual intimacy of the moment is broken as the officers they’ve sent the day before come to inform them of knocking at the witness' (or rather possible suspect's) door and waiting and waiting and waiting in front of the unopened door as the knocking failed to rouse a reaction. 

“So…you left? Without having a look around?” Bill asks them, unable to hold back the surprise in his voice and looking at them over the rim of his glasses. Nervously they glance at each other and shrug.

“Yeah.” 

Keeping his voice even yet urgent he says, “Well, get back and try again. Wait until he opens the door or comes back home. And for God’s sake have a look around the property. Subtly. Find out what car he drives.”

And off they scuttle with long steps and flushed faces. Somewhere behind him, Holden disappears, stating, “I’ll see if I can talk to Stephanie” and Cayden gives a barking laugh, gathering his notes. “Ready for the meeting with the Captain?” 

And that’s how the rest of the afternoon is spent, Reynolds and eventually Wilson are informed of the news and a statement for an official press release is formulated. 

At some point the officers return, this time to tell him Mr. Walker was invited to the station for the next day and they didn’t have time to look around but that an odd smell emanated from the inside of the house. Perhaps even from Mr. Walker himself, who, to the two lip-biting, neck-scratching men, appeared to be in a desolate state. Very much like the house itself. In fact, the property and its owner gave off a disturbing sense of something foul seething underneath the already vile surface. 

Bill thanks them and notes down their observations on a fresh notepad with a frown and the impression that Holden wasn’t wrong about this after all. Slowly another long day winds to an end.

Tired, Bill manages to buy some food before returning to the hotel. While he begins eating, Holden continues his research, sometimes reading passages he deems interesting aloud, raising his voice to be heard as Bill finishes his food and begins his nightly routine in the adjacent bathroom. 

Despite his best attempts to listen to what Holden is reading, his thoughts return to the previous afternoon like an endless loop. Walking out of the bathroom and looking at his ghost, he’s starkly aware that he’s never touched Holden before; and at the thought's inception, the desire to do it quickly takes root, grows into something he can’t contain. He’s overcome by the urge to try, to answer the question if the other man is just a piece of an elaborate fantasy or something more. Can ghosts be touched? Or will yesterday’s incident repeat itself? Thoughts stacking in his head like the tower of Babel, he walks towards Holden, slowly (focused on his crown of soft looking hair and the softness of his features in the lambent glow of lamplight as in trance) and reaches out. And feels the structure tumbling to the ground.

All thought stops as he comes to stand beside him, as Holden looks up at him, open and vulnerable, as the clock ticks in the stretching silence between them and his hand reaches out to grasp Holden’s wrist, fingers curling around it lightly.

It’s cold. Cold because there is no blood running through these veins. Cold because Holden is the ghost of a dead man.

Bill would like to flinch away from the ugly sensation, like slimy slithering things wrapping around him, but doesn’t, too curious about it.

Holden gasps, the book falls to the ground. And he looks down at the point of contact. Something flickers in his eyes, right before his wrist flickers. It disappears beneath Bill’s hand until he’s holding onto nothing and a grotesque cut-off point appears where elbow meets arm. It isn’t a clean cut, it’s frayed and if Holden were alive, the sight would be gruesome.

While Bill stares, unable to say something, Holden is sucking in air he doesn’t need. Around his arm, the air hums, reality bending, and then his arm is whole again.

Unable to quell the urges, Bill lays his fingers gently over the non-existent pulse point, tracing along defunct veins. And Holden lets him. Lets him explore the strange sensation of touching Holden, and of his accelerating heart. 

With immense mental strength he glances at Holden’s sparkling eyes and grabs his shoulders, solid, cold, almost human. His hands brush along his shoulders up to his unclothed upward-bend neck, gently wrapping around it, his thumbs brushing his cheeks devoid of hot blood, continuing staring into Holden’s eyes. 

“How is this possible?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why can I touch you?”

“Because I want you to. There’s nothing else to it,” Holden murmurs, embarrassed, sad, “I want you to.”

Six years of solitude. Six years of being trapped in this place. No one had noticed, no one had known. No wonder Holden radiated misery and sadness, feelings so strong and palpable that being in his proximity always left Bill feeling askew. Holden rises from his seat, mere inches separating his body from Bill’s.

Without his conscious decision his arms move until they’re encompassing Holden’s slighter, freezing frame. He can sense that Holden is confused and shocked by a touch usually reserved to close friends and loved ones, then he relaxes into the embrace with an exhale and buries his face in Bill’s neck while his arms find their way around Bill’s middle.

A gust of wind against his neck as Holden softly says, “You’re so warm.”

Wound tight around him, Bill should be able to pick up a scent, but there’s none. He can’t smell the other man, no cologne, no flesh. Strangely it doesn’t bother him, merely rouses his curiosity. 

“I remember now - my mother warned me about people like you,” Holden murmurs, has Bill suppressing a shudder.

“Like me?”

“Hmhm.”

Bill waits for more, for any kind of explanation but none is forthcoming. Until –

“Bill,” Holden sighs as if the wind itself is moaning, like the lovesick spirit of a veteran’s wife waiting for her husband’s safe return. “It’s been so long.”

So long since what? The arms around him tighten their hold and for a short moment Bill panics, gripped by the fear that Holden might push invisible hands through his ribs and crush his heart. But then those ice-cold hands creep towards his face, forcing him to look into Holden’s eyes…his lips.

Oh.

_ Oh. _

“Are you – bewitching me?”

“No.”

Like two paralyzed victims trapped in quicksand, they are caught in this moment in which they stare at each other, gauging each other’s reactions. Then Bill closes his eyes and lets himself be pulled under.

Kissing Holden is like kissing ice cream, but without the nice fruity flavor exploding on his tongue. There’s nothing polite about the kiss. It’s slow, yes, testing the boundaries of their budding attraction, careful to not break that spell but Holden’s mouth is hungry and soon his lips suck on Bill’s, first his upper then his lower, a whimper leaving his throat. One of Bill’s hands wraps against his neck protectively, while his mouth is giving in to Holden’s demand, surrendering to his body’s wishes. He opens it to meet Holden’s tongue. He should probably taste like nothing – he leaves the taste of decay behind as his tongue retreats from Bill’s mouth, as his lips glide against Bill’s one last time.

When he opens his eyes again, Holden’s face is so close to his, he could count the eyelashes on his still closed eyes if he wanted to. The other man is slow to open them, obviously savoring this small piece of affection.

Bill is decisively not ready for the ghostly glowing blue of Holden’s determined eyes as he opens them and pins Bill in place with his stare while his hands dig painfully into Bill’s chest like a bird taking flight with his prey. He’s being pushed back onto the bed with force, has a handful of Holden crawling into his lap and catching his lips in another ice-cold kiss that borders on desperately bruising.

Bill’s hands lie unresponsive next to him, too overwhelmed by events happening in quick succession, by everything in him drawing tight in pleasure. But not for long. His hands are being taken and placed on Holden’s waist while the kiss slowly tempers off just for Holden to urge, “Touch me, Bill. Make me feel human again. I want - to feel alive.”

Although his circumstances are widely different, Bill can share the sentiment.

Testing Holden’s ability to stay solid, his hands slowly start to caress along his creepily real feeling shirt, fumbling for the edge of his shirt to put his hands on Holden’s icy skin. God, why does he feel so real? Why does kissing him make Bill feel like he’s kindling a slow burning fire?

“Touch me,” Holden hisses and demands impatiently, taking hold of Bill’s hands again and pushing them against his backside. Jesus fucking –

And while Bill can feel sowed desire grow in his belly and his groin, gropes Holden’s ass unashamed and needy, Holden remains unresponsive.

Uninvolved. Even with him rolling his hips into Bill’s with vigor.

Carefully Bill pushes Holden away from him, kissing his full lower lip one last time. Holden doesn’t like it, groans not in pleasure but frustration and balls his fist angrily against Bill’s racing heart.

“What are you trying to do, Holden?”

“What does it feel like?”

“Cut the crap. If you’re – fuck if you’re using some weird voodoo ghost shit on me, stop it. Immediately.”

Holden blinks at him, confused at first, then he snarls, an ugly grimace adorning his usually pretty face.

“Fuck you, Bill. I’m not using any  _ voodoo shit _ on you. I don’t have any powers whatsoever. You think I’d still be like this if I had? You think I wouldn’t use it to feel blood pumping through my veins again? To feel the sun on my face? To taste my favorite foods again? To taste you?”

Floored by the admission Bill regards his enraged face, twisted by sorrow. Make me feel human again, he’s demanded. Not alone, trapped, invisible. 

Sighing he pulls the dead man down to his chest. Comforting him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, kissing Holden’s head. 

“It’s not fair. I thought – once my killer is caught, I can finally move on, go peacefully.” He buries his head in Bill’s neck. “But deep down I always knew it’s not what I want.”

Bill is afraid to ask what it is. Has to take all his courage to do so, “What do you want?”

“I want to live again. I want a second chance,” he admits fiercely and more quiet whispers, “To experience life with you.”

He raises his head again, piercing Bill with an imploring glance.

“I don’t want to leave yet, Bill.”

Bill doesn’t know what to do with the ugly truth spilled like oil leakage, polluting the air between them. He can’t turn back time, can’t grant life to decayed bones and its lost soul trapped between worlds.

Holden saves him from fumbling for words by kissing his cheeks, letting his lips wander towards Bill’s jaw and underneath to the sensitive parts of his neck. Bill shudders. But not because he’s cold. Because Holden’s kisses feel like a wildfire burning his skin. His hands roaming across his body like a thousand matches struck in the dead of night.

“Let me. At least, give me this.” Holden’s lips find the shell of his ear, softly whispering words of wailing, beseeching him. “Please. Let me.”

Bill can’t help himself, there’s something hypnotic about Holden’s voice. He nods, searching for Holden’s mouth, giving himself over to the strange intimacy. While he’s slowly losing his breath by kissing Holden with every ounce of long-forgotten passion, Holden quite literally tries to get into his pants with single-minded focus. There’s nothing delicate about his fingers, they’re not long or elegant like so many women’s, they’re strong, a bit stubby compared to his slightly bigger palm which wraps around his growing erection and squeezes.

A moan erupts from his throat at the heavy petting and is swallowed by Holden’s raptures mouth. It’s been so long since someone touched him with anything akin to lust and need. Whatever spell has enchanted him, this is the point where he truly stops caring.

Experimentally Holden strokes him, changes speeds and pressure, listening to Bill’s throaty sounds of desire, watching every reaction from beneath heavy-lidded eyes to see what gives Bill the greatest pleasure. Only when Bill becomes dizzy from the lack of air, the waves of heat engulfing his body does Holden stop kissing him. He’s quick to undress himself and then Bill, pushing the last pieces of garment off their bodies with fervor before lying down next to Bill and picking up where he left off. His hand finds and maintains a steady, maddening rhythm. Ghostly flesh leaves goosebumps all along Bill’s left side where the other man presses himself against him as if trying to melt their bodies.

His mouth once again leaves kisses along Bill’s shoulder, neck, licking a patch of skin there. His teeth bite into Bill’s earlobe, mouth murmuring filthy thoughts into ear to plant them directly into his brain and have it paint vivid pictures that fuel the fire in his veins.

“If I were alive, I would be so hard for you right now. Lord help me, I tried to purge these wishes, but I’d let you take me.”

He envisions it.

Realizes he’d do it.

He turns to regard Holden, can only focus on one part of his face at a time – his soul catching eyes, his beautifully arched mouth, the laughter lines around his eyes, the beauty mark on his jaw – and smears another inelegant kiss along his cheek until he finds his mouth. But Holden won’t let Bill kiss him, too intent on frantically preaching like a man awaiting the end of the world.

“I’d roll onto my belly and let you fuck me. Just the thought of you inside me – I think I could come untouched. Your cock would be enough. I’d be so desperate and eager for it.”

His hand is a tight circle around Bill’s pulsing hard flesh, guiding him to the edge, “Imagine it, Bill, imagine it, I think I’d even let you come inside me.”

“I’m –”

Holden won’t let him finish the sentence. “And then I’d do the same to you. Again and again.”

Bill comes with groan, eyes tightly shut as his body convulses with delicious shudders, his nerves firing on all cylinders; curses at the way it doesn’t seem to stop. He thinks he’s never come this hard in his entire life. He thinks he knows why it’s called a little death.

It takes a few moments for him to regain his breath and get his bearing, blinking lazily at the peeling ceiling, at the corner where it meets wallpaper.

“I can’t believe this,” he finally whispers. Holden is still plastered to his side, leeching his warmth, caressing Bill with gentle fingertips.

“What?”

For a moment Bill has hoped it all been in his imagination, a fucked-up magnificent fantasy.

“I just had sex with a ghost. Fantastic sex. With a ghost.”

Sudden nausea overcomes him as what has just transpired really hits him, and he stumbles from the bed to the bathroom like a bat out of hell.

“Bill? Are you alright?”

“Gimme a minute.”

He looks at himself in the mirror for as long as he manages – his flushed cheeks and rumbled hair – , counts to ten, takes slow breaths and turns on the faucet to wait for warm water to splash into the basin. With slow precise movements he washes himself, brushes his teeth, his mind replaying the past hour or so to him in vivid detail for him to dissect and accept. 

Holden is very much still there as Bill emerges a few minutes later. He’s sitting cross legged on the bed, wearing a pair of briefs and nothing else, almost like a statue, guarding the bed like Sphinx. What riddle will Bill have to solve?

“I think we need to talk.”

“Not now, Holden.” Bill stops him with a raised hand before he can say another word. “I’m tired,” he winces at Holden’s glare, “and going through a sexual crisis, okay? Supernatural crisis? Hell, I don’t know, some kind of crisis. Please, just – Let me sleep on things.”

The stand-off lasts for a little eternity, but Holden eventually caves.

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Taking a deep breath and exhaling through his nose, Bill contemplates getting a cigarette but opts for going to bed instead. He lies down next to a sitting Holden who hasn’t stopped watching him warily, probably bracing for rejection.

“Do you need to sleep?” Bill asks, turning onto his side, body language open and inviting.

“Not really,” Holden answers and relaxes, sliding down to face Bill.

“Are you going to stay?”

Holden looks at him, searching for something in his eyes.

“Do you want me to?”

In lieu of answering, Bill throws his arm around him, shuddering at the cool contact. Holden wiggles around until his back faces Bill’s chest, molding himself against his heater made of flesh. Bill can feel exhaustion tugging at his eyelids and closes them, hoping that the cocoon of blankets will be enough to keep him warm with Holden in his arms. 

“I’m going to find the asshole who did this to you. I promise,” he whispers into Holden’s neck. If Holden responds, he doesn’t hear it anymore.

Wrapped around his lover like this, he falls asleep easily. And fast. So different from last night, yet the same. His chest pressed to Holden’s rigid and cold back, his last conscious thought is about the man in his arms; that all he wants right now is to bury his soul between Holden’s ribs, to give up a part of himself if only it would reverse the irreversible. To give back what he’s been given – the feeling of belonging.


	7. Chapter 7

_ Orpheus withdrew his step and escaped every misfortune, and Eurydice, now restored, was approaching the upper world, following him behind; for this was the condition Proserpina had demanded. Suddenly a madness took hold of the incautious lover (certainly forgivable, if the infernal world knew how to forgive). He stood still. Unmindful of the condition and overwhelmed by passion he looked back at Eurydice, who was at that very moment verging on the light. There all his effort was wasted and the agreement of the pitiless tyrant broken. Three times a shattering was heard throughout the Avernian fens. And Eurydice spoke: _

_ ‘What terrible madness has destroyed both you and me. Hear! A second time the cruel fates call me back and sleep covers my swimming eyes. Farewell. Stretching out my powerless hands to you, I am borne away, enveloped in endless night, yours no longer.’ _

With force the book is closed with a heavy bang by Bill, his hands shaking. Is this another one of Holden’s stupid clues? Holden – who is conveniently nowhere to be seen. Divine intervention? Or some uncanny coincidence? What is he supposed to do with such a story?

Making his way out his room with his luggage in hand, ready to finally do some washing, the words keep repeating in his mind; last night keeps repeating in his mind. _I want a second_ _chance_ amidst a flurry of images of passion and longing.

Around the corner, not far from his hotel he finds a laundromat, barely inhabited this early in the morning. In the corner of the room, mounted high up on the wall, the news is reminding him of the case.

“Chief of Police Wilson has issued a statement saying that the investigation of two brutal murders in Mount Pleasant is still Homicide’s highest priority. And that the FBI’s help is still of utmost importance. 

While he gave no details or any new insights on the current state of the investigation, it has come to our attention that a possible suspect, one Father Benjamin of the Sacred Heart’s Church, has been interviewed without an arrest made. He was set free the same day. No further information on any possible suspects is, at this point in time, known to the public. Meanwhile the first victim of these gruesome killings has been identified. 

Holden Ford was abducted when -”

Rolling his eyes, Bill turns his attention elsewhere. 

Sitting in front of the rotating washing machine and the dryer, he tries to make sense of it all, this whole damn case. If something unnatural, something dark and heinous made sure Holden’s soul stayed in this plane couldn’t the same be done in reverse?

There’s a small seed growing in the back of his mind, something selfish. Something absurd. Crazy. It can’t be defined in categories of right and wrong because nothing about all of this can. Can’t be rationalized. But, Bill figures, letting a dead man touch him and enjoying it, puts him past the event horizon of his sanity anyway. 

“Penny for your thoughts?”

At the all too familiar voice ringing out to his right, Bill turns to the object of his thoughts. Next to him Holden has taken a seat, awaiting a response. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to answer. Bill’s continuing silence sparks a mischievous glimmer in Holden’s eyes, and suppressing a smile, he leans towards Bill, who is blinking in confusion, and plants a sweet, airy kiss against his cheek. Alarmed, forgetting for a moment that no one but him can see Holden, was able to feel the gesture, he looks at the two other patrons before he remembers. And shakes his head.

Sighing, he reaches for his notepad and pen and begins writing.

- _ Thinking about your case.  _

“What a shame – after I gave you much more pleasant things to think about.”

- _ Don’t push it. _

“Oh, but I will. You owe me a conversation. You owe me the truth.”

_-_ _I_ _agreed_ _to help you. The only thing I owe you is finding your killer, like we agreed._

Holden rolls his eyes in exasperation and rearranges himself so that he sits facing Bill with his whole body, can glare at him, challenge him to a battle of wills.

“Fine. Be that way then,” Holden eventually says, looking like he wants to say something else on the topic, but his face relaxes. “You’re going to question this Mr. Walker later?”

\-  _ That’s the plan. _

“I’m sure you won’t mind if I’m present. It was, after all, my idea.”

\-  _ Nothing I can do about it. _

“What if he turns out to be innocent – Like Father Benjamin?”

\-  _ Don’t know. Keep searching I suppose. _

As he’s writing the last word, the dryer in front of him starts beeping, indicating that his clothes are ready to be collected. Followed by Holden’s intense gaze he gathers his clothes and crams them into his bag. And absolutely annoyed by the scrutinization, whispers, “What?”

“Nothing,” Holden smiles. Bill can tell that it’s fake – his eyes don’t smile, still fixed on the bag, and the corners of his mouth fall just as quickly as they rose. The nonchalant fakeness, the nondescript petty statement bugs him, but it’s what he deserves for being elusive himself. Gathering the last shirt and flinging it into his bag he zips it up and walks towards the exit, not waiting for Holden to follow him. He either does or doesn’t and if he doesn’t, well, he’ll turn up like a bad penny anyway, sooner or later.

The late morning sun is, as always, scorching as he walks the short distance to his car and lights a cigarette, the passing cars on the street reflecting the sun, blinding him momentarily. The heat fosters the need to reach out to Holden, who has indeed followed him, and is now walking beside him. Bill is sure that his cool touch would feel like a blessing if given under these circumstances. Unconsciously he’s starting to think about last night again, conjuring it up in vivid detail and with it an altogether different heat which he can feel traveling to his face and in his loins. Hurrying his steps he climbs into the car, telling himself to think about other stuff – the first time he met his ex-in-laws, that time Brian witnessed a murder, Holden’s body lying in the morgue instead of next to him.

“So,” Holden, oblivious to Bill’s inner conundrum, says, “What does keep searching entail? If you’d tell me more about procedures, I could help.”

“Can you please shut up for once?” Bill hisses, sticking the key into the ignition and merging into the traffic.

Holden frowns. “First you don’t want to talk to me about personal matters and now you want me to shut up. Great, Bill. Just great. You’re a real gentleman, aren’t you.”

“I’m not and I never said I was. Listen, can you put yourself in my shoes for one goddamn second?” he finally barks, angry enough to shout, “I’m doing everything in my power to help you. Yesterday I did what you wanted me to do – I’m following obscure leads, I talked to the psychic, I saw you possess an innocent woman, for God’s sake. I even let you touch me. You’re a fucking ghost, Holden! Half the time I’m with you I’m wondering if I’m losing my God damn mind and the other half I’m thinking about how to find the bastard who did this. We don’t even know if catching him will help you. We – I don’t know anything about this! I’m fucking clueless, okay?!”

He discards the remaining ash of his cigarette in the ashtray before snuffing the cigarette itself, deliberately not looking at Holden.

“You touched me first,” he eventually whispers, obviously moping on his side of the car.

“Seriously? That is what you take away from this?” Bill takes a deep breath, reflects on his past relationships, the past weeks, for the duration, the seconds, it takes for him to expel the extra air from his lungs. “I’m on your side, Holden. Be patient, okay?” He hopes the  _ with me, with your case  _ is conveyed in the gentleness of his voice. Holden keeps silent, very obviously pouting. 

Bill takes another deep breath, “I didn’t mind – last night – I didn’t mind.” He pauses, hoping for Holden to fill the silence. When he doesn’t, Bill quietly adds, “I participated and I enjoyed it.”

“Honestly?”

“Honestly,” he glances at Holden from the corner of his eye, “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“Not funny, Bill.”

“No?”

“Bill, uhm, I’m sorry about Madame LaVue. I need you to know, I didn’t mean to do that.”

There’s a familiar earnestness in Holden’s voice Bill has come to associate with the other man.

“I believe you,” he says as he arrives at the police station. “One more thing. Did you manage to talk to our second victim?”

“You mean Stephanie?”

“We don’t know that.”

“We’re pretty sure.”

“Yeah, alright, whatever. Did you?”

“No,” Holden says, shaking his head. “I can feel her, but I think she’s not able to communicate.”

“That’s what I thought. Angela is seeing her in her dreams.”

“I know.”

Smirking, Bill says, “Of course you do.”

As he walks the few steps to the station with Holden by his side, some part of his brain supplies him with the information that Holden’s lengthy periods of staying have not gone unnoticed. Not unnoticed and not undesired. 

The day progresses shockingly fast, time flying by. Bill calls Wendy first, to run by the profile, asking for her professional opinion on religious motivated killings. A fact which interests her profoundly and one which they had not previously researched – something to talk about during their next meeting. His second order of the day is to call the people on the list given to him by Mrs. Bauer, not one hundred percent certain but sure enough that her daughter is the second victim. They all say the same, tell of a young bright girl, nice and good-natured, who couldn’t even harm a fly; a death no one had seen coming and which had shook everyone who’d known her. While he is talking to them, writing down things that could be useful for the investigation, he notes down Mrs. Ford’s name in the corner of the page, circling it in thick black ink. He hadn’t done it – talked to Holden’s friends – thinking Holden himself would be enough but he revises the idea. He should have done it sooner.

His profile has been pinned to the corkboard, as good as finished: everything about the UNSUB’s thought patterns and behavior, the kind of victims he prefers: young people in their early twenties who are no outsiders, therefore low risk; religious roots, which makes him see them as good, uncorrupted, therefore either despicable to his own values or therefore the perfect victims because of his shrewd values. Wendy and he hadn’t been sure which one applied in this case. 

A little guiltily his eyes wander to it now and again. Guilty because he hadn’t relayed the whole truth to Holden – the truth that he’ll be forced to leave if the investigation drags on without results. Theoretically he’s done his job. He’s created a profile. The remaining investigation can potentially continue without him. Once again he helped Gunn climb the ladder by potentially helping solve an unsolvable case. 

But what bothers him even more than the half-truth he told, is Mr. Walker’s continuing absence throughout the day. It becomes more and more likely that Mr. Walker is somehow involved if he hasn’t got a very good explanation for missing the appointment once he turns up. By the time it’s late afternoon, Monroe, Cayden and himself are convinced that something is definitely not right. It’s one of those days - days which already have a wretched beginning from the moment the sun rises on the horizon, beginning for example with an absence, and which unfold in the same vein. 

Holden, too, can feel the strangeness of the situation, the underlying tension with every glance at the clock and between the people in the room. 

“Bill, can you turn the page, please?” he’s asking every so often, sitting in the chair next to Bill ever since he walked into the station, listening to every conversation and reading Bill’s notes with careful consideration. He turns the page for Holden and flicks through the case file to look for Cayden’s notes on Allegra Carbot and the officer’s observation on the Walker house. He spreads the paper across his desk, arranging them, reading them. 

Absorbed in the file with single-minded focus, he doesn’t register how the cigarette in his hand has stopped burning – death of parents under tragic circumstances – what circumstances? – a caring grandmother – grandmother hasn’t left the house in years – strange noises and smells coming out of the house –

Suddenly it’s like looking at the mosaic instead of the little pieces composing the picture. God fucking damn, he’s been so occupied with Holden, so personally caught up in all of it, prejudiced, too, that he hadn’t seen the obvious solution staring and laughing at him.

“ _ It _ is him,” he mumbles, chest shuddering with the sudden onslaught of excitement, catching Holden’s attention. “What?”

“You were right. It’s him. Keres Walker. The stressor, he started killing not because of his parent’s death but because–”

Holden interrupts him with big eyes and a straightening back, “Stressor? What is that?”

“His reason for escalating.”

“His reason…his grandmother’s death!” Holden exclaims, quickly catching up to Bill.

Just as Holden finishes his sentence, Bill frantically grabs the phone and punches in the number Miss Cabot has given to Cayden.

Becoming aware of the change in Bill, Cayden and Monroe look up from their work with furrowed brows. He looks back at them over the rim of his glasses. 

It doesn’t take long for the person on the other end of the line to pick up their phone.

“Miss Cabot, hello, this is Agent Tench speaking.”

“Agent Tench, I knew you would call, how can I help you?”

“During the investigation, some questions regarding Mr. Walker arose, I wondered if you could answer them.”

“I’ll try my best.”

“Can you tell me what Mr. Walker’s occupation is?”

“I’m not sure he’s got  _ one _ steady profession, Agent Tench, or any job at all for that matter. Last I heard he did some kind of manual labor.”

“And can you tell me what kind of car he drives?”

“Hmm, let me think…I can’t tell you the exact model…”

“Size is fine, big? Small?”

“Oh, yes, yes, it’s big, a big black van.”

“One last thing, did Mallory ever talk about her grandchild’s behavior when he was still a child? Did she confide in you about wetting the bed or setting things on fire or even animal cruelty?”

“Such a long time has passed, I’m not sure. He surely was a strange child, Mallory and I often talked about him… but I can’t remember if any of these things ever came up in a conversation…or no, excuse me, I do remember…He began wetting his bed shortly after his parent’s death and there is this incident when he was a teenager, but it was never pursued…”

“What did he do?”

“Desecration of a grave. His parent’s grave.”

“Thank you, Miss Cabot, you’ve been an immense help.” 

“Agent Tench?”

“Yes?”

“Bless you and good luck.”

“Thank you.”

He puts the phone back in its cradle and meets his colleagues - Holden’s- questioning eyes.

“It’s Walker,” Bill begins and continues by pointing out every fact that has brought him to the conclusion, using his fingers, “He lives close to the construction site, no steady job, drives a van, criminal history, your guys,” he looks at Cayden, “said there’s a strange smell coming out of the house which could be the smell of more bodies. Cabot,” he points to the case file, “said she heard strange noises coming from the house. I bet what she’s hearing are screams. Mallory Walker is dead, in fact she died six years ago. It was the last straw – first his parents, then his grandmother.”

Cayden frowns. “Wait,” he holds up a hand to stop him, to try to follow his train of thought “Why start killing? Because he’s angry God took his entire family? And now he exacts his revenge on those that still believe in him?”

It’s Monroe who answers before Bill can, “Or hail Satan? The blood, remember?”

“And why are the killings six years apart? If she died six years ago and Ford was our first victim, why – oh – fuck.”

Adrenaline begins to flood Bill’s body and for a moment he’s chained to his chair, realizing that, “Fucking hell, Wilson’s gonna be furious with me.”

But for the moment there are more pressing issues. They need to act fast now, before Keres Walker destroys any evidence. Bill rises from his seat, “Cayden, you, I, judge. Without concrete evidence we’ll need a search warrant. Monroe, you hurry over to Reynolds and tell him, then get some officers and drive over to the Walker house. Get him out there if he’s in, see if he allows you to search the house. If not, wait and observe him. He’s starting to burn things in his backyard? Move.”

Quickly he gathers what he needs, the case files, his profile and throws them into his briefcase. Making sure Cayden and Monroe aren’t watching, he looks at Holden and gives him a lopsided smile. The other man reciprocates by putting his hands in his pockets, standing straight and attentive, like a soldier ready to move out. 

The judge isn’t impressed with what they’ve got. Bill can see it on his face, his pursed lip, his wrinkled forehead and the hand scratching his receding hairline.

“Sir, please. I know it looks like a big stretch, but we have a witness, two officers stating that something was strange and a suspect who didn’t turn up for the interview. He could be getting rid of evidence right now, could’ve already done it last night,” Bill begs, aware of Holden standing right behind him, the urgency of the matter.

“The profile tells us he’s likely to have committed the murders.”

Taking a deep breath, the judge rumbles, “What’s that? A profile?”

Used to the question by now, hoping that he doesn’t have to answer it one day, he explains it, explains his conclusion. It takes a while, but the judge finally budges. With reluctance. Bill thinks it’s because he’s fed up and just wants to go home.

Warrant granted, Cayden and he run out the courthouse and jump into the car. Outside, the evening has claimed the night sky, the first stars twinkling high up above, among a sea of black. 

Monroe and Reynolds greet them on the street outside the house, leaning against one of the police cars with grim expressions, the light of the police sirens casting red-blue shadows over their faces. As they approach, Monroe starts talking, “He didn’t open the door. Which comes as no surprise. There’s no car in the driveway, so we think he’s not home yet. Let’s hope he didn’t run. Had a look around, though. And took some photos.”

“And  _ we _ got the warrant,” Bill announces and watches the grim expression turn into a smirk. “Did you bring equipment?”

“You bet we did.”

“Captain Reynolds, you wanna do the honors?”

Reynolds walks over to the mouth of the driveway, puts his fingers between his teeth and gives a loud, shrill, whistle to catch every officer’s attention and explain the situation.

“Our suspect is currently not residing in the house, plenty of time for us to do a thorough search. And when I say thorough, I mean thorough. Take this place apart, I want no stone left unturned. Everything you might find suspicious, you put in a bag and label it accordingly, understood? No mistakes.”

A chorus of “Yes, sir” bellows in answer to his explanation.

“Smith, Olson, you stay here and wait for Mr.Walker’s return. He is not to enter under any circumstances.” 

Then Captain Reynolds and Detective Cayden lead the troupe of policemen to the house, their torchlights jumping across the uneven ground. Bill and Angela are the end of the line, both of them in light blue jackets displaying the yellow FBI font on the back. The further down they go, nearing the house standing in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by gnarly old trees hung with Spanish moss, the darker it gets, the light of the stars hidden by what seems to be enormous trees. Underneath the soles of their feet, decaying leaves and gravel crunch.

The house itself, like the officers said, is in a ramshackle state – dirtied white paint peeling from the wood slants, unkempt bushes and plants all around the property claiming it back slowly and surely. Some sinister aura envelops the massive house, strengthened by the fetid odor. Bill hears an officer’s wretch and cough, moments before an icy hand grips his own.

“Be careful, Bill,” Holden whispers, his voice trembling. He waits for the noise of Cayden and Reynolds breaking down the door to answer back, hushed and secretive, “I’ll be fine.”

With a crash, the door bursts and as they begin to enter the structure with deliberate steps, someone in front of him curses, “Jesus – what the fuck is that smell?”

Someone else, likely Captain Reynolds is turning on the lights as they advance deeper inside. As soon as light illuminates the hallways and rooms of the house, the sources of the miasma become visible to their eyes – the outer decay has spread inside. Every space is fully packed with all kinds of old, partially rotten things: there are newspapers on the floor, read and unread and stacked high up as towers along many of the walls; in between there are boxes with baubles and moldy food, dead and dying plants, yellowing wallpaper peeling from the walls, the drapes an unidentifiable color. The kitchen looks like no one has cleaned it in a decade: insects feasting on the dirt-crusted plates and glasses lying on every surface, jars filled with horrid contents.

Bill is still reeling from the gut-turning discovery, still forcing his nose to become used to the smell while suppressing the impulse to vomit all over the floor, when Holden moves out of his periphery. The task force is slowly progressing through the house, afraid of what they might encounter. Some have started to walk upstairs, others exploring the first floor further, but Holden is walking through the kitchen. He’s approaching a hidden door, one not leading outside to the porch.

“Holden,” he hisses, hoping to stop him. He doesn’t listen. As if caught by a magical spell his hand curls around the metallic knob. Holden tries to open the door. It doesn’t budge. Frustrated he begins rattling it. Until Bill closes his own hand around Holden’s cold one. The look in Holden’s eyes, as he catches his gaze, tells him enough.

“Take a step back,” he whispers and does so himself to gain enough traction. Balancing on his left foot, his right pounds against the door over and over again until the wood gives way and splinters, the door flying inwards.

Darkness’ gaping mouth awaits him. With careful steps he inches closer and lets himself be swallowed by the absence of light – the torch in his hand the only small point of guidance there is down the rickety steps.

At the foot of the stairs he guides his light along the wall searching for a light switch, finds nothing. But his search doesn’t remain fruitless, the beam brushes up along the walll and there above him a lightbulb hangs by the ceiling, the switch attached to it.

His hand stretches towards the string, pulls it. And casts the room in shadowy light. Inescapably his eyes are drawn to the table – no, not table, workbench – in the middle of the room stained by what must be all kinds of fluids – but most of all blood. Blood which resides in a shelf in bottled rows along the right side of the wall, right across another shelf filled with old books, scrolls and tomes close to crumbling to dust. Situated right behind the workbench a coffin is elevated above the scene.

Overwhelmed by this den of monstrosities, Bill doesn’t know where to go from there, is rooted in place while his mind is processing what he’s seeing. Underneath all of the obvious horrendous sights, other things begin to reach his conscious mind: a symbol – not a pentagram but a variation he hasn’t seen before – right underneath the workbench, strange scripture along the shelves and as he takes a trembling closer step, also the coffin. Suddenly his ears pick up a quiet, barely audible whisper coming from the bookcase, beckoning him closer.

“Bill!” The cold touch of Holden’s hand around his arm breaks him out of his reverie. Bill shakes his head to dispel the cloud which has settled like fog in his mind and feels his heart race as he realizes that he can’t remember walking towards the shelf crammed with books, nor his hand reaching out.

“Stay focused,” Holden urges.

Bill swallows and nods, then takes a book, not even inches away from his fingertips, out of the shelf and holds it, without opening it. Scared what’ll happen if he does. Instead he pushes it underneath his jacket and shirt, tucking it into the waistband of his pants, hiding it for later scrutinization. That he’s tempering with a crime scene doesn’t occur to him at that moment.

He looks back at a scowling Holden, who tucks him towards the coffin, saying, “Open it.”

“Do you know what’s in it?”

Holden doesn’t answer, stands next to him in silence and stares down at the hexagonal casket.

“Holden?”

“I don’t.”

“Still can’t remember what happened here?”

His usual confident countenance is missing as he raises his head and meets Bill’s eyes with a stricken expression, “I don’t think I want to remember.” He pauses. “Now open the coffin.”

Bill does. Easily. He’s not sure if he was expecting for the wood to be glued shut, for a heavy weight or imagery lock. None of these things apply. The top slides off the coffin and clatters to the ground on the other side. And the inside of the coffin is revealed – the embalmed, mummified remains of a person. Bill doesn’t need forensics to know it’s Mallory Walker.

Bill looks at the corpse, the blood, the bench, the symbol, finally the bookshelf –

“What was he trying to do?” he mumbles, feeling like the answer is close at hand, taunting him, a carrot on a stick dangling right in front of him.

All of a sudden the stairs, at the other end of the room, creek, alarming Bill to someone entering the cellar. “Bill? Are you here? Oh my God, what is this place?” He whips around in time to see Monroe’s shocked expression.

Bill takes a deep breath, “Our scene of the crime.”

More pairs of footsteps move towards the basement and someone upstairs yells out that Keres Walker has just arrived back home. Bill looks at his partner and tells Monroe to safeguard the basement before climbing the few flights of stairs with quick steps to oversee the arrest himself.

Outside, he meets Captain Reynolds, and together they walk the short distance from driveway to street. From afar they can already see Walker in handcuffs, surrounded by officers.

His eyes are averted, fixed on his heavy work boots.

“He was at work,” Smith says, disbelief in his words. 

The captain, even though he’s just as tall as Walker, plants himself like an iron wall in front of the unresponsive man. “Keres Walker. You’re under arrest for the murder of Holden Ford and a second as of yet unidentified person.” He looks at his officers, “Gentlemen, I’m personally escorting him to the station.” To Bill he says, “Cayden is in charge of the crime scene.”

Bill watches as Walker – scruffy looking in every sense of the word – is pushed into a police car and driven away to the station. His black van is parked at the side of the road, waiting to be towed. 

The satisfaction of watching him being taken away so he can be brought to justice doesn’t last long, as the implications the arrest brings with them settle in his gut like a stone. Very close to the place the hidden book is nestled against his stomach.

He waits until the red taillights of the car are no longer visible to turn back to the house, now shining like a beacon in the surrounding blackness. Before he can make the short walk back to the property, none other than Allegra Cabot comes shuffling along the street, her cat poised on her arms. 

Waiting for her, Bill pulls a cigarette out of his pocket. She comes to a halt right next to him and regards the house with sad eyes. Her cat, meanwhile, is turning its head to stare at Bill like he always does. Except, he doesn’t and now that Bill thinks about it, never has. The feline’s gaze has never been on him, but rather on someone standing very close to him.

With a sigh Cabot turns around and focuses her gaze on him.

“Good evening, Miss Cabot,” he greets her, offering her a cigarette.

She shakes her head in declination. “Good evening, Agent Tench. Holden.”

“You can see me?” Holden asks, breathlessly surprised. Bill merely frowns. 

Cabot doesn’t answer Holden’s questions and keeps petting her cat.

“Can you see him? Hear him?” 

“Neither I’m afraid. But I know he’s with you. I can feel his presence.”

“Alright.” He has no idea what that means. And is too exhausted to ask.

“She’s dead, isn’t she?”

Bill looks at her warm hazel eyes, filled with unshed tears.

“Has been for a while, yes. I’m sorry for your loss.”

A few tears slide down the beldame’s cheek and are brushed away with steady hands. “I thought so. Did he do it?”

Bill exhales smoke from his lungs, “We don’t know yet. But he’s in custody now, you have nothing to worry about anymore. He’ll receive his proper punishment; I’ll make sure of that.”

A small smile steals itself onto the woman’s face, deepening the lines around her eyes and her mouth. She must’ve had a good life, full of laughter. The thought makes him think of the ghost right beside him.

“I’m sure you will. I heard you talked to my sister.”

Bill rubs the toe of his shoe against the faintly glowing cigarette bud he let fall to the ground, and feels the frown on his face deepen. “Your sister?”

“Yes, yes, you wouldn’t have known, I suppose. She calls herself Madame LaVue.”

Trying to warm his hands, Bill slides them into the pockets of his pants, huffs and can’t help but smile at the irony. “Do tell.”

“She never had the gift. Of course that didn’t stop her from trying or making a business out of it. But she never really understood what it was about. I hope she didn’t give you some cock and bull story?”

“Yeah, don’t worry about that. Seems like I talked to the wrong sister.”

Allegra laughs, jostling the cat in her arms, who meows and jumps down, strutting over to Holden and winding around his legs like a figure eight.

Her expression sobers when she speaks again, “It’s time.”

“Time for what?” Bill asks, licking his lips as his mind already pieces everything together.

“To let him go. He needs to move on like he was supposed to do. What he now needs is a proper burial. His soul can’t stay here forever. My sister might be a fool but a broken clock is right twice a day. What’s dead should stay dead.” 

“Don’t act like _ I’m _ the bad guy, like I deserved to die,” Holden barks, shooing the cat involuntarily away as it jumps backwards and hisses in his direction with its fur standing on end. Bill, too, feels Holden’s anger rippling lika a cold shockwave across his body.

Cabot picks up her cat again, talking to him in a hushed tone, “He didn’t like that, did he? Agent Tench,” she says, looking at him, wise beyond anyone’s comprehension, “If you allow me one more piece of advice.”

Bill nods.

“Get rid of that horrible book you have underneath your clothes. Throw it into the ocean and let it sink to the bottom, or better yet, burn it, burn it until it is nothing but ash. Do the same with all the other pieces of writing catching your attention. They give off a particular aura, like everything else that which is associated with evil things. You have excellent instincts, Agent, tame them, use them and who knows, maybe one day, even you might awaken your third eye.” She takes one last look at the house down the driveway, then as a final goodbye says, “So long.”

Bill is too stunned to answer her, watches her walk back to her house, the dark of night swallowing her form, with his mouth slightly agape. Holden is silent as well, glaring at her retreating back.

Slowly Bill shakes himself out of his stupor. He needs to do as Cabot told him, knows this kind of truth down to his bones. Then he and Monroe need to get back to the station to interview Keres Walker. 

Bill trudges back to the house and encounters a police officer vomiting next to it. Expected. The smell has not gotten better as Bill steps closer to the house and enters. There are officers in every room now, searching for usable evidence, fighting their way through the decade old filth.

Bill balances his way across the hallway, making sure not to step on any of the boxes and papers littering the floor. In a spur of the moment decision he takes a tour of the house, before he’ll join Monroe down in the basement.

The rest of the house is in no better condition – it seems that the hoarding has already manifested in an earlier generation and runs through the family tree like a golden thread. There are old oak cabinets filled with fine china and porcelain dolls, a room full of normal books and wood carved figurines. Many of the rooms on the second floor are filled with furniture, making navigating through them as though walking through a maze. The only exception, the two bedrooms: one which is pristinely preserved, likely Mallory’s and the other, just as badly organized as the rest. As he enters Keres’ bedroom Cayden is in the middle of taking photos. The light of the camera goes off and his face appears from behind the massive camera.

“See this pile of clothes over there? Wanna bet ours are somewhere among them?” Holden says and walks into the room, towards the pile, to kneel down next to it. Bill follows and obscures Cayden’s view of Holden digging through it, telling the detective the same thing.

Positioned like this, his eyes catch the upturned cross above the bed, framed by peeling, moldy floral wallpaper.

“Could you take a photo of this.” His words are accompanied by a nod to the wall. As Cayden turns to do as asked, Bill turns to Holden, tapping him on the shoulder, and jabbing his thumb into the direction of the staircase. Reluctantly Holden follows him out of the room and down the first flight of stairs, though the kitchen and the second down to the basement.

Monroe stands in front of the bookcase, hands on her hips, shaking her head over and over again. Then one of her hands brushes over her hair, flattening it to her skull, head still shaking. She stops once Bill has approached and touched her shoulder and says, “What is all of this? My first thought is to dismiss it as insanity – but that crazy motherfucker knew exactly what he was doing. I mean, he kept his mummified grandmother in a casket for God’s sake! He killed those people to to – I don’t know... for satanic purposes? I don’t know…”

“Angela, go wait for me outside. Get the car and let’s find out what he has to say. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

Biting her lip, she nods and brushes past him. His eyes follow her slow walk up the stairs and as she disappears through the door. Only then does he turn to the shelf and tries to do what Cabot told him – listening to his instincts on which scripts to take and which to leave for forensics to analyze.

*

Regarding Walker at length under the white, fluorescent light instead of the darkness of night, he looks like a man who wanted to get caught, who had nothing left to lose. He hadn’t asked for a lawyer, a police officer told them as they arrived at the station. 

Cayden and Monroe are flanking him, all three of them silently watching Walker sitting across the double-sided window with his eyes fixed on the table, his hands somewhere in his lap. His shaggy brown hair is hanging in greasy strands down to his chin and his clothes don’t fare better, have definitely seen better days. The clock on the wall says it’s nearly midnight. Back in Mount Pleasant the house is still being taken apart, the forensic team once again has been called down from Columbia, mainly to take blood samples from the bottles in the basement. The image of that abominable place turns Bill’s gut, and the imminent prospect of talking to Walker even more.

He enters the interview room with trepidation, in a state of wanting to know and remain unknowing. Walker doesn’t look up as the three of them enter, as Bill puts the tape recorder on the table in front of him, as he starts the recording by stating the usuals – the names of the people present, the name of the person being interviewed, date, time.

After that there’s a stretch of silence. They wait for Walker to acknowledge them. When he still doesn’t after several minutes passing, Bill reaches for a cigarette and begins with his usual tactic.

“Want one?” he asks. Walker shakes his head. “Did they get you a coffee?” Walker shakes his head. “How about now? I bet you’re tired.” Walker shakes his head. And looks up. Resigned brown eyes, bordering on black, look at him.

“You caught me. Just get on with it.”

Surprised, Bill's eyebrows rise up to his hairline. “So you admit to killing Holden Ford and likely Stephanie Bauer?” Monroe pulls two photographs from her folder, each depicting the victims. Walker’s eyes only briefly wander to the presented items.

“Yes.”

Suddenly Holden materializes in the corner of the room, right behind Walker, his eyes locked on the man, anger and hurt and victory and sadness fluttering across his face.

Bill doesn’t want him to be here, doesn’t want him to hear what was done to him. But he has no way of communicating his wishes. He’s torn between his desire to understand the criminal in front of him as an agent, the desire to protect Holden from the truth and the anger he feels at what it will be. 

“Right, so why did you do it, huh?”

“I wanted to bring her back.”

“Your grandmother?” Monroe carefully interjects.

“Yes. My grandmother. I wanted her back. He told me I could, he told me there was a way.”

“Who is he?”

“The Dark Lord.”

Stunned, the three of them look at Walker, taking a second to come to terms with the admission.

“I was praying for a miracle, for someone to help me, I did everything the books told me to do, like, how to contact the other side; that’s when I first heard his voice. He’s been guiding me since Gran – passed away.”

“Guided you how? What did he tell you? To kill those two innocent people? And do what?” The anger is rattling his bones, screaming for release, “Tell me about the blood, the fucking basement. What did you do to them?”

Walker doesn’t care about Bill’s anger. Calmly he answers all of his questions, “He did. He pointed me to the right rituals, to those with the purest blood, those most loved by God.” 

“Explain these rituals.”

Those black soulless eyes not once waver, “First, one needs to cleanse the body of the sacrifice. Which might take a while, and in which one must stay strong to not give in to the begging. Once one has accomplished this, one must wait for the blood moon to arrive.”

“And then what?” Bill asks, trying not to imagine it, not imagine Holden in this situation.

“Then the sacrifice is stripped, then strapped to the bench inside the pentagram; it consists of special runes to facilitate the ritual, to establish a tunnel between this world and his. It’s of utter importance to be fastidious, you see, a wrong sign can already sabotage the ritual… Then I cut their throats.” 

Bill is sure the disgust on his face is obvious for Walker to see. But the other man doesn’t care. 

“I needed to extract their blood, all of it, I needed it to give her life; their blood and their souls in exchange for Nana’s.” For the first time emotions show on Walker’s face, not because he’s sorry for what he’s done – no, Bill knows those types. He’s sorry for being caught, sorry he couldn’t finish his work, couldn’t complete his unholy trinity. “I only needed one more,” he whispers, “One more, given to him in six years’ time.”

In the blink of an eye Holden has moved, is now standing right behind an unsuspecting Walker. The rage on his face tells Bill that he’s thinking of killing Walker, doing something way worse to him. Like this, Bill believes him capable of anything. So he looks at Holden, pleads with him via eye contact to not do it, to not let that psychopath get away with it, to give him the easy way out and bring his soul in jeopardy.

Monroe continues the questioning. “Can you tell us about the burials? Why this place?” As she’s asking, she pulls a bunch of photos of the construction site from the folder, spreading them on the table, never once covering Holden and Stephanie’s faces.

Meanwhile, Bill can hear the rushing of his own blood in his ears, his palms starting to sweat as he watches Holden’s hand stretching towards Walker’s head.  _ Please _ , he’s begging Holden in his head,  _ please don’t. _

“Nana told me it was holy ground. Our ancestors used to preach there. Makes one wonder who really acted blasphemously – it wasn’t me who tainted it by digging up the bodies or built houses for the rich upon it.”

_ Please, you stubborn idiot!  _ If anyone sees the turmoil on his face, they ignore it.

“But you choose to follow a different kind of God. I doubt your Grandmother and your ancestors openly worshipped Satan.”

Thankfully, not Holden. Seeing or hearing Bill, whatever it is, he retracts his hand and takes a step back, the pained expression still on his face. He flickers. Flickers again. And is gone. Gone in time for Bill to hear Walker’s next part of the confession. 

“No,” Walker shakes his head, “but, that doesn’t matter, yes? It’s just soil. The intention turns it into what it is. This place held power. And I harnessed that power; used it to make sure the ritual would stick, that the Dark Lord would get what was rightfully his. What I promised him.” 

_ What was rightfully his  _ – Bill’s body moves before he knows it does, abruptly standing to tower over Walker, jabbing his finger into his face. “You son of a bitch! What gives you the right to decide who gets to die to feed your fucked-up beliefs?!”

“Bill!”

“I didn’t decide, he did.”

“How convenient, isn’t it? Him, Satan –  _ you _ decided you couldn’t let go!  _ You  _ decided to read these books,  _ you _ decided to sacrifice these people to bring back your grandmother because  _ you  _ couldn’t bear the thought of living without her!  _ You _ kidnapped them,  _ you _ starved them,  _ you _ listened to them begging you to let them go,  _ you _ killed them and collected their blood to pump it into your dead grandmother!”

“Bill!”

“The grandmother  _ you  _ dug up, embalmed and kept in  _ your _ basement!”

Cayden pulls him out of his raging speech by grabbing his biceps none too gently. The pain shooting down his arms, stops him. Mortification spreads inside his body like liquid heat.

He looks at Cayden’s stern face, teeth grinding, at Monroe’s slack-jawed expression of shock, and clears his throat, voice raspy, “Excuse me.”

His whole body shaking, he leaves the room and flees to the bathroom.

The opening of the door echoes inside the unoccupied room, as do his footfalls against the white sterile tiles. His colleagues must think he’s just as crazy as the man they're interviewing, exploding without discernible reason, taking the man at his word. To them, Walker is a raving lunatic, none of the things he’s saying make any sense to a normal human being. Unlike Bill, to whom every word is the painful truth.

Closing his eyes, he turns on the faucet, and leans down to cup cold water into his hand and apply it onto his heated face. They don’t know that there are occult books, stolen from the crime scene, in Bill’s briefcase or that he’s haunted by a dead man, a ghost. A ghost with kind, beautiful eyes; so human in his inhumanness, strong and smart and a little strange. He reaches for the paper towels, wipes the remaining water away and confronts his own face in the mirror. A ghost he’s developed feelings for. How is he supposed to explain that? To anyone other than perhaps Allegra Cabot?

His soft intake of breath, his steps out the door, reverberate inside the empty room as he exits. 

Cayden and Monroe are waiting for him in front of the interview room, looking at him with twin expressions of concern. Bill exhales a frustrated sigh through his nostrils.

“I’m sorry, I – he got to me, I guess.” It’s all he can say on the matter without sounding like the man on the other side of the door. “Angela, you got this. You can wrap this up.”  _ I’m not in the right mind to do it _ , is left unsaid.

Angela nods, “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“Yeah. See you tomorrow.”

Sliding the last cigarette out of its packet, he turns to leave. On his way back to the hotel, he stops at a corner shop for a new one, and a bottle of whiskey.

*

Lonesome and for an awfully long time, Bill sits on the bed in his dimly lit room, the bottle of whiskey half-empty, subjected to the horror of the truth; the confession so freely given after little probing. All energy has left his body, leaving him deflated and exhausted to the bone. It not only means that this case is on the precipice of being solved. Closed. It means life will move on. Angela will be transferred to his unit, Detective Cayden will go on to solve the next murder and Bill? Alone again. He will go back to Virginia waiting for the next precinct to ask for help, maybe even go back to the study, back to his old life yet changed in ways inconceivable to anyone but him. Without Holden…

Because Holden will be gone. Moved on to where he belongs, existing only in Bill’s memories and dreams. Unbidden he feels the first tears fall onto his crossed hands, his nose quickly clogging up as the thought of never seeing Holden again fills his mind with pungent anguish.

Despite his grief-stricken state, he feels the familiar sensation of Holden appearing by his side immediately, his presence a soothing constant ever since he entered this accursed city. His cold, smooth hand curls around Bill’s cheek, wiping the tears away as they’re rolling down, turning his head to look at him with despair.

“Don’t weep for me,” he murmurs.

Bill licks his lips, tastes the salt of his own tears and speaks past the lump in his throat, “You were right, it’s not fair.”

Holden’s thumb draws consoling circles across his cheek. He likely thinks Bill cries for the life he could never live, inconsolable for what has happened to Holden. He would be right, but it’s only half the truth. The tears come faster now, with the full revelation of his feelings on the tip of his tongue, the dilemma he’s found himself in.

“I think I’ve –”  _ fallen in love with you _

“I know.”

“You don’t, smart-ass. Listen to me – I’ve just – found you and,” the lump won’t let him finish. He swallows and swallows again, wants to say, _ You didn’t get your chance at any of it, won’t get any more chances. We don’t get a chance. This is it _ . “But what she said, it’s true, I have to let you go. Tell me, do you remember now?”

Holden slowly nods, visibly biting his tongue. 

He doesn’t want to let go, but it’s what he must do. He’s seen first hand what will happen if he doesn’t. Trying to stop the tears, Bill reaches for the tissues on the drawer to dry the unfamiliar wetness on his cheeks. God how long has it been since he last cried? Since he let himself feel enough sorrow to make himself cry? With a mixture of shame and relief he hides his head in his hands and waits for the tears to stop, silent sobs shuddering his body.

For once Holden patiently waits with him. When finally he’s done, swimming in the blissful feeling of catharsis, Bill takes a breath with his trembling lungs and turns to face Holden; who climbs into Bill’s lap, his hands twining around Bill’s face, making sure he’s looking at him, listening to him.

“If this is goodbye, if our days are numbered, then I want to thank you, Bill – for helping me, for seeing me. For giving me a little slice of mortality. Thank you for showing me what it’s like,” he kisses Bill’s cheek. “To be valuable.” Another kiss to his forehead. “To be a lover.” His last kiss is planted on Bill’s trembling mouth.

“Don’t be sad. The time I had with you, however short it was, filled me with joy. I was more myself than ever before and you accepted me. Please, don’t grieve for me. Think of me fondly. Think of me, don’t forget me.”

Only slightly comforted by the words he winds his arms around Holden and presses him closer to his body. Father Benjamin’s sermon comes to his mind, John 16: grief turning to joy.

“I’m the one who must thank you,” he mumbles and looks up at Holden’s glistening deep blue eyes, “For reminding me that there are things to live for and things to learn, relationships that are important and why I do this job. For making me laugh.  _ And _ remembering what it’s like to care for someone.” 

Gently he lets his forehead touch Holden’s. 

“I need to know, Bill. Is it still your intention to follow me?” inquiring, light trepidation is resonating in his voice. 

“No,” Bill whispers, not surprised Holden knows, has seen him so deeply and completely, “I want to keep the memory of you alive as long as I can.” The confession doesn’t hurt as much as he thought it would.

“Good.”

Holden smiling in heartache and happiness is a far greater ache; to see his face contort with fresh glistening tears falling from his eyes. As Bill stretches out his hand to catch them, they don’t touch his fingertips; merely after echoes of what Holden remembers of crying, how it’s supposed to look, to feel.

“You better make use of our last remaining days, I figure it won’t take long until my bones will be given back to my family.” 

A wet laugh escapes Bill’s throat. “I’ll keep remembering you, I promise,” Bill assures him, pulling Holden towards his body and down to the bed, his head pillowed on Bill’s chest to listen to the steady beat of his heart, arms wrapped tightly around each other. 

“I promise.” 

“I know you will. For I won’t be truly gone as long as you do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone interested in my playlist for this fic? Let me know and I'll post it together with the last chapter.


	8. Chapter 8

When Bill awakes with a miniscule headache the next morning, sunlight wedging itself between the half-closed blinds, he is not alone. Holden’s cold body is pressed closely to his and his arm comfortably thrown around the other man’s torso. As he’s blinking against the bright light, he becomes aware of Holden watching him with a small smile on his face. Last night feels like a distant bad dream.

Bill finds no reason to speak and so at the prolonging silence, slowly takes the time to fully regain conscious thought. His fingers begin tracing patterns on Holden’s exposed hip, trying to memorize the otherworldly feel of him. Slowly, he lets his hand venture along the cold smooth skin on Holden’s back and up to his neck, where it curls around soft hair and strong muscle, delicately yet firmly, and draws Holden closer to plant a chaste kiss against his lips.

It starts out innocently enough, a soft glide of lips against lips but he’s learned that Holden is insatiable, filled with a hunger for all things reminding him of mortality. He opens his mouth against Bill’s lips just the slightest amount, before his tongue carefully pushes against Bill’s lower lip and subsequently into his mouth, filling it with the familiar earthy-sickly-sweet-spicy taste so unlike any other person he’s ever kissed. To his own astonishment, he’s come to the realization that he doesn’t mind the taste of death very much at all, that the pulsing sensation in his groin is enough of an indication to the contrary.

Sliding out of the kiss gently, he rolls Holden onto his back to hover above him; to let appreciative eyes roam across the planes of his body – not only to memorize every beauty mark, the slight definition of his pectoral muscles, but also to let himself come to terms with his deeply buried desires dragged out into the light. He’d never thought he’d allow himself to entertain these thoughts, let alone act on them. But here he is, his hand grazing over a constellation of moles along Holden’s neck, eliciting a shiver, then down his chest where Bill encounters another scar, faint, barely visible directly underneath his left nipple.

Before he can ask about its origins, his head is gripped and slowly lowered in order for Holden to brush his nose against his cheek, kissing the corner of his mouth. Slightly turning into the loving caress Bill catches his lips again, this time more urgent as he feels slow-pulsing, hot need filling every part of his body.

He’ll be late for the briefing. Something which he meets with apathy since he expects to be buried in red tape soon enough and wouldn’t dare to let this pleasant morning come to an abrupt end.

As an apology Bill carries three cups of coffee from some fancy new-age café into the precinct. When he reaches the conference room his expectation of being the last one is quickly shattered. Despite the advanced hour of the morning he’s the first and standing in the middle of the empty room, the reality of last night couldn’t be harsher. How stupid of him to think otherwise. Naturally, he’s the first to turn up. God knows how long Monroe and Cayden stayed to interview Walker and see him securely behind bars.

“Right,” he mumbles, his gaze roaming across the makeshift office, the boxes and papers, the corkboard. A cold hand wraps around his, Holden’s fingers intertwining with his, squeezing reassuringly.

His gaze lands on Holden next to him, looking at him with wide eyes and a small smile playing around his lips. He reciprocates the gesture then walks over to his desk where the tape of the confession lies placed atop some written notes.

“I’m going to do the transcript. And then call your mother,” he tells Holden, sitting down. “If you’d like to stay.”

“Of course, I do.”

Sat down next to Bill, he watches with his eyes full of curiosity how Bill puts the tape into the recorder and pushes the play button to hear his own voices stating the perimeters of the interview. The keys of the typewriter hammer loudly against the backdrop of voices.

Every so often he pauses the tape to take the time to write down the correct wording of a question or answer, admitting to his dismay that he’s never been the most proficient one with a typewriter, always having envied the younger men at the Bureau able to type as fast as the words from a spoken conversation spew from the recordings.

And hearing himself losing his temper like this, he feels the heat of embarrassment warming his cheeks. Bill wonders what Holden thinks of him, certain that he must think him a hypocritical beast. But when he turns to Holden to gauge his reaction, he is deep in thought, contemplating something Bill is not privy to.

Taking a sip of his coffee he turns his attention back to his task. Steadily and slowly he continues and is finished with the first part -the end of his outburst- when Monroe and Cayden arrive.

“Good morning,” he greets them, stopping the tape, “I brought coffee - good coffee. I thought I owed you an apology.”

Angela slouches over to his desk, her leather bag falling to the ground in a disorderly heap, “Ah, you’re a saint.” She takes one of the cups but wrinkles her forehead as the drink slides down her throat. “Jesus, you could’ve warned me. How long have you been here?”

Bill chuckles and reads over the transcript before taking off his glasses and addressing her. “A while. Thanks, Angela. For finishing the interview and your help on the case. I’ll make sure to talk to Gunn once we’ve wrapped this up.”

A big genuine smile stretches along her youthful face, nearly erasing the dark circles underneath her bright green eyes. “You will? Thank you, Bill. I’m, uh,” she laughs abashed at her own speechlessness. 

“I’d be negligent of me not to. You’ll make a good addition to the team.”

Cayden smirks, throwing his arm around her delicate shoulders to shake them, “Congratulations, Monroe.” Turning to Bill he says, “And thank you for all the hard work and the help you provided. I’m not sure we could’ve solved this without you. How about we finish all the leftover paperwork and go celebrating, I think it’s what we deserve. The rest is up to our department anyway. What do you say?”

Angela is fast to nod, and Bill follows, already thinking one step ahead. He’ll celebrate, because it’s what they deserve and will make an early exit to spend the rest of the night with Holden. 

Suddenly the phone call hangs like a dark cloud above his head. It means telling Mrs. Ford the truth, it means giving her closure. It also means Quantico will transfer Holden’s remains in the upcoming days. For his own good, he decides that he won’t think too hard about it, will ignore the mixed feelings of relief and sorrow battling for his heart and mind.

Covering his muddled feelings with professionalism he coordinates with the others, telling them that he’ll finish the transcript, copying it for Cayden’s department, and calling Holden Ford’s family. At the mention of the Ford family, Cayden perks up.

“Now that you mention it, Forensics arrived in the middle of the night. For all I know they’re still searching the house, I mean you saw it, it’ll take some days to comb through it but they found something, shortly before Monroe and I left. IDs. Ford’s and Bauer’s.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah, uhm, Walker confirmed he’d killed Stephanie, but he also told us he tried to resurrect his grandmother, so…”

“So just to be sure, I get it. Are you gonna tell them?”

“I’m gonna do it,” Monroe interjects, her hands clasped in front of her body.

Bill looks at her with surprise.

“I’d like to if that’s alright with you.”

“Sure. Cayden?”

The detective shrugs. Understandable. No one Bill has ever met enjoyed being the messenger of bad news.

“It’ll give me time to drive over to the crime scene. Take care of any evidence we need, you know.” Bravely he gulps down the cold coffee, shaking himself only slightly.

“Bill?” Angela asks, the smile gone, replaced by her usual sobriety.

“Hm?”

“You think his lawyer will push for an insanity plea?”

Bill takes a moment to think, pushing a cigarette between his lips and snapping his lighter shut. He takes a long drag, filling his lungs with nicotine, taps ash off the tip and rests his hand on the desk. 

“Probably.”

“Do you – do you think he is?” For all the growth she’s experienced, for all the education she received, she’s baffled by Walker’s psyche. It throws her off her usual steadfast perception of the workings of the world. She looks into his eyes, seeking guidance, answers. None of which he can provide, something which becomes shockingly clear once more as Holden, whose presence he’s nearly forgotten, stretches his pointer finger towards Bill’s hand atop the desk and gently caresses the back of it.

“I think he knew exactly what he was doing and that’s what we need to make clear in our reports. And the trial, should it come to that. For everyone’s sake, let’s hope not.”

Satisfied with the answer given, she picks up her discarded bag and sits across from him, beginning the day’s work. Sighing, he does the same, pushing the play button and starting the tape.

The remaining interview hurts. It hurts to listen to it; how Walker describes more rites taken from ancient cryptic texts, such as covering the face to make sure the soul wouldn’t leave, a sacrifice every six years, how he picked his victims (exactly as Bill has predicted, driving along the coast, from town to town), how the devil supposedly told him which ones to pick, how he hit them over the head with a metal pipe to make sure they were unconscious and then in detail how he brought them home, kept them, killed them. Hearing it spelled out like this, Bill feels sick to his stomach and only pushes through for Holden, knowing that he’s lived it and deserves Bill’s undivided attention. It doesn’t make it easier.

It certainly doesn’t make the following phone call easier. Mrs. Ford starts sobbing, while Mr. Ford, this time surprisingly present, is stoically silent. To Bill’s astonishment it is he who asks for details of Holden’s end in a quiet steady voice. Only reluctantly he gives a mitigated account to the sound of Mrs. Ford’s increasing wailing. If she knew the whole truth, she’d surely faint. 

In the afternoon, he brings the borrowed books back to the library and goes celebrating in a cozy dive bar not far from the precinct that evening, with half the police station joining them. He’s enjoying himself, drinking, for the first time in a while, not alone. The bar is a known locality among the force and even Monroe is already familiar with it. Has he really isolated himself so? Nipping on his beer, surrounded by cheering faces and curious officers who want to know more about this so-called profiling, he vows to try harder with Brian and to call Wendy as soon as the plane touches the ground in Dulles in two days’ time, to talk to her about matters unrelated to work. Like he used to, before his divorce, before the end of the study, before he went down that self-destructive path. Perhaps he can even convince her to a nice quiet dinner. 

He also excuses himself early like he planned to, before someone can persuade him to stay and drink, drink, drink. He fully intends to return to the hotel sober and in full possession of his physical capabilities. 

Holden waits for him as he opens the door to his hotel room, gracefully splayed on the bed, sheets flirtatiously draped across his half-naked body. A smirk lights up his face as Bill hurriedly closes the door and tugs his tie free.

*

His farewell to Cayden is as emotional as two men entrenched in the grinding gears of law let themselves be, a strong long handshake in lieu of an embrace, and honest words of thanks. It is more heartfelt than his stiff and cold departure from Reynolds and Wilson afterwards. Wilson, undisputedly grateful for the FBI’s help, can’t help but rub Bill’s initial faulty assumption into his face with humorless smiles and veiled criticism. Bill doesn’t feel masochistic enough to stay for or participate in the press conference. Grateful that it isn’t his job anyway. His job is to roll into town, help catch the bad guy, and leave. 

So that’s what he does. For what he hopes is the last time, he watches the South Carolina landscape passing by, leaving the ocean, the oaks, the marshes, behind. The same roads which have brought him into the city, into the belly of the beast, spit him back out. 

His goodbye to Angela is decidedly more affectionate. At the airport, he and Angela part ways, and he can’t help himself but draw her into a short, strong hug, which she reciprocates. Her warmth, her breath on his neck, her flowery perfume, he notices, provide a palpable contrast to Holden’s nature. He parts from her with a pat to her petite back.

“See you soon, Agent Monroe,” he smiles as he bends to collect his luggage and suitcase, so much heavier with the weight of forbidden knowledge hidden inside.

Angela smiles back, “And I you, Agent Tench.”

  
  


The smell of dust and stale air greets him as Bill steps over the door still of his house. For how comparatively fast this case was solved, it feels like a small eternity since he last stepped foot into his own home. With a sigh he slips out of his shoes, drops his bags next to the couch, his key somewhere in the kitchen and begins throwing the windows wide open to let fresh air in. Upstairs he also changes into a set of comfortable clothes before descending back to the first floor. After such a long time in a hot humid climate, the mild warmth of Virginia is a welcome change.

He rounds the corner into the living room to see Holden sitting atop the counter, separating the kitchen from the living area, with his feet dangling back and forth, the perfect picture of carefreeness. Holden’s eyes follow him as he closes the windows. 

Slowly, and immensely happy of the fact that the counter and kitchen face towards his little garden, he shuffles towards those incessantly enticing blue eyes, groping beneath his skin. As if they had done this a million times before, two dancers intimately familiar with each other’s rhythm, Holden’s legs fall open to make room for Bill and hook behind his back to press him closer while Bill’s hands come to rest on his hips, fingers gliding underneath the white shirt Holden is prone to appear in. His forehead falls against Holden’s, his eyes slipping shut. With closed eyes, he nuzzles against his lover, letting his nose glide along his cold cheekbone, and down to his neck, followed by his lips without hesitation.

He can feel something akin to a purr, a pleased little sound, vibrate against his lips and steps back to regard the bliss on Holden’s face before it morphs into that of a cat who not only got the cream but stole it from right underneath someone’s nose. “What do you want to do?” Holden asks him with dreamy eyes, his arms wound tightly around Bill’s neck.

“Have you ever been to D.C?”

“Can’t say I have.”

“Let me show you around, we can take a walk along the Potomac.”

“Okay.”

“Let’s go.”

Freeing himself from the cage of Holden’s legs he takes a step back to hold out his hand, grasping Holden’s and helping him down from the counter. If these are Holden’s last few days on earth, he will do everything in his power to make them memorable, to send him off feeling cherished.

That’s how the next couple of days are spent – Bill meets Gunn for an obligatory meeting, giving a short account of the case, his demand for Monroe to be transferred, before taking a long-overdue vacation. The days melt away in a pleasant haze as if time doesn’t exist. He calls Wendy and has a conversation not revolving around work or himself, learning that her tour of guest lecturing around the country is coming to an end. Like him, she is looking for her next project. He loiters around on the couch to watch TV (deliberately avoiding the news), covered by Holden, weighing him comfortably down. In the evenings Bill falls asleep next to him, oftentimes after being pleasured by his exploring hands or his sinful mouth (a strange yet marvelous sensation, something indescribable), and wakes up wrapped around his body, drinking coffee in bed, side by side in the pale light. Holden doesn’t need to eat or drink, but he keeps him company, anyway, even cooks on one occasion. The food is atrocious, Bill eats it nevertheless, teasing him for being a pampered child with no need for cooking skills.

On the weekend after his return, they go grocery shopping. He tries not to think about the mundanity and domesticity of it, how desperately he wishes for forever, to prevent himself from breaking down in the cornflakes aisle. These thoughts, however, never leave his mind and so, in a spur of the moment decision, he drives them to the nearest tree nursery and tells Holden to pick a tree, any tree. Bill doesn’t care. Holden questions his strange request but upon Bill’s prolonged silence, picks an oak tree sapling. 

Later that day Bill goes to work in the garden with determined intensity, sweat pouring down his neck and the small of his back, and is eventually joined by Holden as he realizes what Bill’s intentions are. Together get rid of the weeds, dig a hole, plant and water the tree in a corner of the garden. For a moment, as he watches Holden working with him side by side, as he realizes how easily he’s been occupying Bill’s space and turned his home into a real home, the fragment of doubt he’s been harboring lodges itself deeper between his ribs. 

He must feel so much worse than Bill, with nothing to leave behind, no legacy. Merely a mourning family and a relationship, killed before it ever got the chance to come into being. A promise is all Bill can give him; the promise of preserving his memory, and a tree to let that promise, his love, take root and grow. 

Later still, once they’ve planted the tree, shoveled soil back into the hole and the sun has set, painting the garden in an orange-green hue, Bill makes love to him next to it, taking and taking with nothing to give back in return.

Monday morning, he wakes to the shrill ringing of his phone and Holden reading one of his dog-eared novels. Groaning, he rolls to his back and grasps for the phone, his watch tumbling to the ground in the process. Cursing the early hour and his clumsiness, he puts the receiver to his ear. “Yes, hello?”

“Good Morning, Bill,” Wendy greets him, “Sorry, did I wake you?”

“Uh, yeah, don’t worry, what is it?”

“Where are you?”

“At home,” he mumbles through a yawn.

“I’m at the Bureau. I’d assumed you’d be here.”

“I’m on holiday.”

“Holiday? You?” She says astonished, pauses and continues with the same tone of voice, “What happened in South Carolina?” 

His eyes slide from the ceiling to Holden.

“How about you come over for dinner tonight?”

“I’d love to. Listen, I feel bad for asking, but would you mind coming to the office? There are some things I’d like to discuss. I’ve also met your new protégé.”

“Angela? How so?”

“It was a coincidence. We met on the elevator down to the basement. She told me she’d only arrived today and was a bit lost as to where to go, so I accompanied her. I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, God, no. Shit, I didn’t know.”

“I like her.”

“She’s a good one. I’ll be there in an hour.”

Reluctantly he rolls out of bed, while telling Holden of today’s plans.

“I’ll see you later then.”

Bill turns to him in surprise as he buckles his belt. “You’re not coming? Please don’t tell me you’re going to attempt to cook again. I really don’t feel like explaining the sudden appearance of bad food in the kitchen.”

“Hey! Show some appreciation. Besides, I’m not an idiot. But what are you going to tell her?”

The last button buttoned, Bill turns to Holden and shrugs. “Some version of the truth. A version that doesn’t make me sound completely insane.” With a crooked smile he walks over to Holden’s side of the bed and bends low to give him a kiss before walking down to the kitchen to have breakfast.

The FBI facility is bustling with people and from the academy grounds the air carries the sound of gun fire. It’s a reminder that life goes on even with his own personal calamity close at hand. He grants the people riding the elevator with him common courtesies but doesn’t mean it, his mind a million miles away as he watches the red numbers above his head blur together; his eyes staring, in reality, through them. He wonders what Wendy wants to discuss, what he is going to tell her about Charleston. 

Another agent has to make him aware of his destination, “I believe this is your floor?” 

“Thanks,” Bill answers in awkward gratitude. The grey walls are at once all too familiar yet unfamiliar. Just like stepping back into his home, this feels like a lifetime ago.

Wendy and Angela are already waiting in his office, deep in conversation from the looks of it. There’s a smile on Wendy’s face, her posture open and inviting. Her hand tucks a strand of hair behind her ear as she answers something Angela is saying with that expression on her face which Bill has come to known as veiled glee. It’s the same one she sported back in Boston upon their first discussion about the potential of this study. Interesting.

Approaching the two of them, he schools his face into neutrality. Wendy is here to talk business; he’ll have enough time to talk to her about personal matters later that day.

He announces his arrival with a mild, “Good morning” to catch their attention. Angela rises from her seat like a bolt shooting out of the ground instead of the sky and stretches out her hand to be shook.

“I’m sorry, Monroe. I wasn’t aware today was your first day.”

“Oh no, it’s not. I’m starting next week but I wanted to get a feel for this place, you know, get to know everyone.”

Bill raises an impressed eyebrow.

“I feel like, uhm, as a woman, I feel like I’ll have to put in double the effort if I want you, I mean everyone in the department, to respect me.”

At that, Bill shares a bemused look with Wendy, then shakes his head with a chuckle and sits down, followed by Angela, “Take my advice, don’t do that. There’s enough to be done around here. Most of us never really go home. Remind me, Wendy, who held the record for unpaid extra hours?”

“I honestly can’t remember, but Bill is right. You were recruited for a reason, there’s no need for you to run yourself to the ground just to prove you can.”

Definitely ‘interesting’, his gut feeling tells him.

Bill clears his throat to catch Wendy’s attention. “So what did you want to talk about?”

“Your case,” she says, looking at Bill and Angela. And getting Bill’s heart kicking uncomfortably inside his chest. “It’s highly compelling. I’ve been thinking about it ever since you called me. Tell me about him, what was he like when you caught him?”

Taking a deep breath to control his reactions he replies, “Calm and rational, very assured of himself.”

“Did he seem untruthful to you, like he was faking his mania?”

“No. Wanna hear the confession? I’ve got it on tape, figured you were eager to listen to it.”

He opens the file cabinet of his desk and pulls out the file, complete with tape, transcript, photos, notes, and asks Angela to pass him the recorder lying on another shelf. Internally he’s shying away from listening to the tape, his stomach in knots at having to listen to it again. But he can’t get away from it, can’t let it show unless he’s ready to do some serious explaining. And he knows Wendy, she won’t be swayed. He’s not even sure he wants to sway her. What if talking about the case, from a researcher’s perspective, will help him come to terms with his experiences? 

“Does that mean you’re coming back?” he asks as he puts the tape into the recorder, looking into her eyes, searching for the truth.

She grants him a small smile, “It seems there are unexplored characteristics of violent offenders that deserve a closer look.” 

“In that case, welcome back,” he smiles back.

They listen to the confession, Wendy intently focused on the data, as always, and begin talking about it afterwards, and how to expand their research. It is while they are talking about possible research questions and subjects that the phone on his desk unexpectedly rings. Twice in a day. Well, third time’s a charm as they say.

Grabbing the receiver, he utters a surprised, “Special Agent Bill Tench speaking, hello?”

It’s their secretary, excusing herself and telling him a Mrs. Ford has asked to talk to him.

“Connect her.” To gain some sort of privacy and shielding himself from curious eyes, he turns in his chair and looks at the bare wall behind him. The rushing ends with a click.

“Mrs. Ford? You wanted to talk to me?”

“Ah, Agent Tench. Yes, how are you?”

An image of Holden comfortably reclined on his bed back in his home flashes like a warning signal in his mind.

“Not too bad. How are you Mrs. Ford, you and your family?”

“We’re managing, thanks for asking. Uhm, the reason I’m calling is, uhm, unconventional. I’d like to invite you to the funeral. I know you weren’t close to him but my husband and I, we’re beyond grateful for what you did for him. So, if it isn’t too inconvenient, we’ll like to have you.”

At her words, a ball, the size of a golf ball it feels like, immediately forms in his throat. Taking a deep breath through his nostrils, he closes his eyes and swallows. “Thank you for the invitation, Mrs. Ford. What’s the date?”

“Tomorrow in a week, four thirty at the Holy Sepulchre cemetery in Rochester. We’re having the funeral reception at our house.”

“I’ll be there.”

“That’s wonderful. I’m sure he would’ve appreciated your attendance.”

When he answers next, he hopes no one can hear his voice cracking, “See you in a week.”

The line goes dead, the persistent beeping against his ear never stopping as he finds his composure, presses his fingers against his tear ducts. He gives himself close to thirty seconds before he turns back around and puts the phone back down.

“Is everything alright? Did something happen to Brian?” Wendy asks him. At the mention of Brian, Bill thinks he should feel guilty he hasn’t told Nancy anything about his return yet, but he doesn’t at the thought of the inevitable end.

“Yes,” he chooses to lie, “Nothing too serious, the usual. Let’s continue our conversation tonight, hm?”

“Of course, I’m so sorry. I forgot you’re on holiday. Please, enjoy the rest of your day.”

“Thanks. Does six suit you?”

“Yes, see you later.”

Bill stands, leaving everything on his desk as it is and addresses Angela, “And you, go home and search for an apartment. I’m going to make sure Gregg will throw you out should you turn up before Monday.”

“Yes, sir,” she says sheepishly, no trace of demure on her face. _She’ll fit right in_ , Bill thinks and leaves, a pit opening up in his stomach – he’ll have to inform Holden of his inexorably imminent fate.

Holden takes the news with a surprisingly calm countenance, a feeling which Bill tries to acquire for himself. He is not blind to Holden's desire to stay, knows he does not entirely share Bill’s opinion and clings to the hope this will end in anything other than their separation. But Bill is steadfast in his decision, cannot let this wrongdoing join the ranks of his long list of mistakes. He hopes Holden understands, even if he only reluctantly accepts. And so his only wish, his last wish, is that Bill and he make a road trip out of it.

“Think about it,” he says, leaning next to the cooker where Bill is preparing dinner, “Motel room after motel room, the possibilities…” Tapering off, he quickly picks up his train of thought, “I’d like to show you around the city. When I was younger, we used to move a lot because of my father’s job but, you know, Rochester is where I grew up and where we eventually returned to.” He hears the yearning in Holden’s voice, understands his intention and easily agrees to the endeavor. They leave the very next day. 

*

The road from Quantico to Rochester isn’t the longest trip one can imagine and with the right intentions very likely manageable in a day, but they decide to take their time, enjoying the scenery passing by and local attractions that catch their eye along the way. The underlying heartache still hasn’t subsided, and Bill is sure, it won’t for a while. Yet it’s worth it, every damn second of having Holden for himself. If only to see the warmth weight of his gaze directed at Bill, to hear the soft lilt of his voice. He cannot bear to think about goodbye, of never seeing Holden again, whilst their fingers burn paths across cold-warm skin in forgettable motel rooms.

In Rochester, Holden gives him a tour of the city. His tour – walking Bill through streets and places he used to go, telling him stories of his childhood and adolescence, intimate anecdotes, Bill swears to never forget. Standing on the sandy shore of Lake Ontario he describes how, as a child, he nearly drowned because he was too stubborn to listen to his parents and had decided he could swim without floaties. Luckily another family had seen his stupidity and fished him out of the lake before he could be swept away. Walking through a park, he narrates how his sister and he used to play hide and seek to the chagrin of their mother, who had, in his opinion, always been a tad overprotective. In another park he points to a bench shadowed underneath two white ash trees and recounts his first kiss with a man, given in the dead of night, a summer crush he’d harbored before he left for college. They return there that same evening, on Holden’s insistence to recreate that moment.

On the eve of the funeral, the touches turn more desperate, the kisses frantic, feverish. There’s nothing left of the lazy, unhurried pace of the previous two weeks. Bill lies awake deep into the night, Holden entangled his arms, their hands intertwined above his heart, his fingers caressing in mindless patterns across his knuckles, his shoulders. Sleep only claims him because it must, his eyes falling slowly shut with exhaustion. 

Holden wakes him with kisses pouring down on him like a gentle summer rain, and they don’t part until it is absolutely necessary; he orders room service, stays in bed as long as possible. When they can’t postpone the inevitable any longer, Holden helps him get dressed, knotting the tie around his neck and evoking the feeling in Bill as if he’s tying a noose, cutting off all air supply. His fingers brush across Bill’s neck one last time to press him closer and kiss him with fervor. Fervor Bill reciprocates.

The weather isn’t befitting for his doleful mood. It has been a while since his last funeral, but in his head, he has a clear picture of dark stormy clouds, thick droplets pelting down on black umbrellas. That day, the sun is shining brightly in the sky, with no clouds in sight and a soft breeze to cool his neck as he’s slowly roasted, all in black as he is.

Holden clings to him like a shadow all the way to the cemetery and into the chapel, where Bill dips his finger into the holy water and crosses himself, more out of respect than belief. Since Charleston, his perception of Christianity and religion has suffered a huge blow; permanent damage beyond repair. He finds Mrs. and Mr. Ford standing at the altar in front of a closed casket. A young woman, looking like she is in her late 20s, early 30s is with them, ashen faced and tight lipped. She is so very obviously Holden’s sister. Her hair is the same shade of brown and curls around her shoulders, her face, albeit more feminine, is sporting the same facial traits.

Only Mrs. Ford attempts to smile when he arrives in front of them, to shake their hands and give his condolences.

“Thank you for coming, Agent Tench,” she sniffles, wiping away fresh tears. Mr. Ford says, “And thank you for finding – the man responsible for my son’s death.”

Their thanks does nothing to soothe his own pain, to the contrary – his chest feels like someone took a blunt spoon and hollowed it out.

“I did what had to be done.”

Holden sister speaks next, “In the news they said that – that this Walker guy is trying to escape capital punishment. They said he’s pleading not guilty. Criminally insane they said.” Her eyes are full of fury and hurt, her hands held so tightly in front of her, they’ve become all white and bony.

With as much empathy he can bring forth, he looks at her, “We have to trust in our Judiciary. I’m sure he will face his just punishment. My colleagues and I have done everything in our power to ensure that.” Her eyes lower to the ground as if ashamed by her emotional outburst and or some sort of implication Bill hasn’t picked up on. Giving each of them a nod, he walks to the pews situated at the back of the chapel. As an outsider, he won’t mingle with the rest of family and friends, he decides. As an outsider, who knows that their son is still with them. He doesn’t look at Holden as his cold hand creeps over to hold his; their combined weight in his lap for the duration of the mass. 

As an outsider, he watches from a distance and with a pounding heart as Holden’s coffin is carried outside to his graveside and lowered into the ground, while his friends and family lament his passing. He blinks against the tears gathering in his eyes, moved by the other’s heartache, his own aching heart being ripped apart. Relentlessly the clock is ticking away. The priest speaks his last blessing, sprinkles the coffin with holy water, then dirt.

“I love you,” Bill whispers gently and turns to Holden, to look at his face one last time. He needs to be sure Holden knows this one truth before he has to leave. As the priest begins to bring the ceremony to an end with words of bolstering hope and which Bill can’t appreciate, Holden leans closer and closer. In anticipation of being kissed, Bill closes his eyes. But Holden’s mouth doesn’t find his. Instead, he feels a feathery pressure on his cheek, only for a few seconds before it's gone.

When he slowly opens his eyes, so is Holden. 

He’s barely present for the following reception, moves around the Ford’s house, talks to the people who are mashing together in a faceless bulk, as if drifting through a particular vivid dream. When he deems it socially acceptable, he gathers his bleeding heart and bids the family goodbye with another round of impersonal clinical handshakes. In another life they might have come to know each other better. Then again, perhaps not. It’s more likely they would’ve hated their son for his ungodly way of living. 

Bill has no intention to stay longer than he must. After the reception, he returns to his hotel, checks out and climbs into his car. These things happen with a kind of automatism, while foggy numbness has taken hold of his thoughts. He can’t let himself turn back and look at what he’s lost, what he’s gained, can’t let himself contemplate the next days, months, years if he wants to move on instead of digging his own grave right beside Holden’s to lie down next to him and let the worms feast on him. He promised. So he’s left with swallowing the tears threatening to overwhelm him like a tornado and begins driving, ready to leave Rochester.

This time of the night, the sky is already painted a dark blue. The streets are less traversed, not deserted, but ghostly all the same, nearly empty underneath the streetlights. His eyes blink against the unshed tears gathering in his eyes as the car crawls along the unrelenting suburban concrete underneath his tires, until he arrives at the junction where the road back home awaits. 

Suddenly something flashes in the yellowish light of the headlights. Not something, someone. A figure, Bill realizes as the car rolls steadily closer. A figure all too familiar to him – perfectly combed hair, a white shirt, deep blue eyes filled with sadness as he rolls by. Holden’s eyes follow him as he passes by. 

He hits the breaks and comes to a halt at the side of the road.

Quietly, the engine rattles, Neil Young softly croons from the radio. His hands fastened to the steering wheel, Bill looks at the darkness in front of him. Why did he see Holden? It can’t be. A few hours ago, he was at the funeral, saw his body being lowered into the ground, in a real grave this time. He’s not supposed to be here. He’s supposed to have moved on. His mind jumps to a moment weeks ago: waking up after he spent the night with Holden and seeing a book opened to the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice. Did Holden leave a clue after all? If so – what should he do? Turn around and send Holden off or be selfish and keep driving, watering the blooming hope of seeing Holden again? He bites his lip, closes his eyes and curses. He tells himself: it can’t be. He tells himself…

Swallowing past the knot in his throat his foot finds the gas.

“You really didn’t look back. I don’t know if I should be angry at your selfishness or thank you for your devotion, my strong handsome hero.”

Bill turns his head slowly. There he is, Holden, sitting next to him, turning his body towards Bill with a grin. “Don’t look at me like that. I was trying to make a joke. This is exactly what I wanted.”

“Shouldn’t you be – you know.”

The grin becomes bigger, stretches along Holden’s handsome face. “Didn’t I tell you that I didn’t want to leave yet?”

“But I saw - They put you in a fucking coffin and then into the ground. We – we talked about you moving on, I said my fucking goodbyes.”

“Not all of me. You see, I’ve come to know you, Bill. I know how righteous you are, and I admire that about you. But I’ve also come to realize that you like playing by the rules. And, to my great advantage, lack some introspection. I did what had to be done.”

His head spinning, he’s not sure which question to ask first, or for which statement he should first take offense. Unconsciously he’s been aware of his slow slide into madness, playing house with a ghost, his easy acceptance of circumstances. What he hasn’t been aware of, until now, how it had influenced his thinking. 

“What? What do you mean not all of me?”

Smirking, Holden glances at the backseat.

“You can be incredibly messy, you know that? The military really failed you; not _once_ since we’ve met, have you taken the time to thoroughly clean that bag or made sure everything is in order.”

Realization dawning, skin crawling, Bill turns to the backseat to grab the aforementioned bag, frantically rifling through it.

“Careful. I hid it in one of the smaller pockets, yes this one.”

Heavily breathing, Bill’s shaking fingers dive into the small pocket sewn inside the bag, and graze something small and... bony. He’s carefully picking it up with his middle and pointer finger and pulling it out of the bag, telling himself it’s not real. Then he turns on the light and –

There it is. A small piece of Holden in the palm of his hand. The younger man leans over to scrutinize it. And curls his cold hand around Bill’s fingers to close them over the delicate piece of human bone lying innocuously in his hand.

“I meant it, careful with that Bill,” he says with warm approval and leans back into the seat but not out of Bill’s proximity.

“This is keeping you here?” Holden nods. “Is _this_ how you were able to follow me around?”

“Yes. I put it in your pocket when you left the morgue the first time you saw me, then I hid it in your bag when you fell asleep so I could move around, go wherever you go. You never asked me for mechanics.”

For a second, Bill is speechless.

“You knew? You knew this whole time?”

“Does it bother you? In my defense, I did tell you, but you didn’t listen. I was trying to be honest with you, Bill. Always.”

“Why disappear then? Back at the funeral? Why didn’t you tell me?!”

“I wanted to surprise you. Well, that’s not the whole truth. The truth is, I was afraid you’d get rid of me if you’d known what I was doing. I couldn’t take that risk, frankly, I couldn’t let you take my agency away.” _Bend the rules a little sometimes_ – Eurydice saving herself from the clutches of the underworld.

Smiling, Holden leans forward into his space again, his hand coming to rest on Bill’s knee.

“How,” Bill swallows, distracted by the soft uptilt of Holden’s mouth, the glint in his eyes. He knows the effect he has on Bill, how his heart races with the desire to kiss him, glad that he still can.

“How did you follow me around when you were safely tucked away?”

Still smiling his hand crawls along Bill’s knee to his thigh.

“That priest came along and whatever he did, it bound us together. He tried to make me leave, thought he could exorcise me with his incantations. But I didn’t want to go. So I fought his spell, emerging victorious. Soon after, I realized that I could move even with the piece of me back in your bag in the hotel room.”

The caress draws upward towards his crotch.

“Bound together, wait –” Bill stammers, “– do you mean to tell me that –” _you could’ve left already, but instead you -_

“Yes, Bill, my soul is tethered to yours.”

Now that this last secret has found its way into light, allows a conjuncture of facts, Holden’s sweet smile seems sinister; the glint in his eyes, the ghostly light in them, the night he let Holden touch him, bear another connotation. 

“Was anything - was any of it real? You did put me under a spell, didn’t you?”

Holden scoffs, “Nonsense. Charmed maybe but that doesn’t make it any less real.”

“Oh yeah? What’s the difference, huh? Are you gonna possess me, too, if I don’t comply?” 

Holden’s smile changes, less mischievous, more heartfelt.

“I don’t need to…Bill, if you want to get rid of me so badly, you know where my grave is, but you really don’t want that, do you? I certainly don’t. Will you kiss me? I can see you wish to.” His face is inches from Bill, his eyes hooded and fixed on Bill’s mouth.

“I can’t believe you,” Bill breathes, “You used me, you manipulative, lying little –”

The hand on his thigh grips him in an unrelentless hold while Holden captures his mouth in an icy, stormy kiss, stroking along his lips, sending warm shivers down Bill’s spine, his heart racing even further. His eyes close and his hand, not holding the bone, moves before he can tell it not to, grabbing Holden’s face, his neck, to deepen the kiss. 

It’s such a novel sensation that Bill hopes - despite his anger over the scales having fallen from his eyes, that he’s been too blind to realize - it will never stop feeling this way, like comfort, like love induced dizziness, liked waves pulling him under. And fuck. Once again, he’s a willing victim to Holden’s whims.

Carefully he detangles himself, opening his eyes in time to catch Holden’s as they open.

“Aren’t you curious, Bill?” Holden mumbles against his lips.

Heart hammering inside his chest, he asks, “About what?”

Noses grazing, he gently says, “If _there_ is a way to bring back the dead; those who are not really gone but instead wander, hopeless and alone – like me, waiting to be found. I know you kept the books. Were you ever going to burn them? Don’t you want to succeed where he failed? Don’t you want to be with me? _Truly_ be with me in _every_ possible sense?”

“Stop. Stop using me or my – feelings for you as a way to get what you want.”

“But don’t you remember? It was true what I said; I want my life back and I want you in it,” and to keep Bill from protesting further, his hand claws painfully deeper into Bill’s thigh, “Listen to me. I love you, you must know that. You’re a big part of what I want. And you want me too. Don’t deny it. You said you love me.”

His hand releases Bill’s thigh to move up to Bill’s face and hold him in a sweet soft grip to make sure he’s unable to look away from Holden, his deep blue eyes. The bone protected in his palm feels like it’s burning his skin.

“Be mine. And I’ll be yours.”

He should ask what that entails, how Holden thinks of manipulating him in the future, what horrors will await him. But he doesn’t. Silently regarding Holden’s hopeful devoted expression with his own weary and careful one instead. It’s a dangerous game he’s playing. Who is he kidding? That Holden has ensnared him in. Some things ought to be left well alone.

The problem is, it really isn’t a decision to be made at this moment. It was made weeks ago, when that seed of mad and wild notions first began to grow, made when he let Holden into his home and his heart. 

Bill doesn’t answer in words – his hand clutches Holden’s cold cheek and draws him into another kiss; one that seals his fate, a pact not written in blood but in the soft press of lips, made between one heartbeat and the next. 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • Once again and for one last time, a huge huge thanks to lapsi.  
> • Also a huge thank you to everyone who left a kudos or a comment. Especially princesskay and theclosetenby.  
> • As promised, my [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2iRoQBASsWwK9A8cwNpzok). I tried to arrange the songs according to chapters. Some songs inspired the story, others I found by accident and found extremely fitting.  
> • If anyone feels like talking I'm over at tumblr @bambikieren

**Author's Note:**

> Comments & Concrit appreciated. If you spot any mistakes, feel free to point them out. Thanks!


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